


Airacobra

by spitfyah



Series: Aira-Verse [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Air Force, Aira-verse, America/England Feels (Hetalia), Angst and Tragedy, Eventual Romance, Fighter Pilots, First story in the Aira-verse, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Personification, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 45,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spitfyah/pseuds/spitfyah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After World War II, America becomes involved in another war- the war for Israel's freedom. Still wary and malaise of Alfred since the Revolutionary War is England, an incredible pilot apart of the newly formed Israeli Air Force. When Alfred joins the IAF, he is thrown into a whirlpool of violence and betrayal- and discovers that Arthur is much more to him then just a political ally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting the Stage

29 November, 1947

—

After World War II, most people think everything just... _ended_. Just like that. No more fighting. No more hostility. Everything just returned to normal.

I mean, that's what I thought.

The Axis had been defeated, but that wouldn't solve things overnight, like the Jews would find out. After many were set free, they desired their own country, the country that had once been their home. This country was Palestine- controlled by the British, just like most countries were in that time (because you didn't mess with the British)- but Jewish immigrants were seldom welcome. Most who came by sea were turned away, intercepted by British war ships.

After being subject to death and horror, the Jewish were left on their own: left to fend for themselves.

So, the U.N. called a meeting in which they discussed the future of Palestine. They proposed it be divided into an Arab state and a Jewish state, altogether disposing of the British rule. The Jewish would have a place to go, and everything would fall into place.

Right?

Hands clammy as raisins folded against the wooden table, trying and failing miserably not to fiddle with the 'United States' name tag settled neatly in front of him, Alfred Jones sat at that meeting, sweating more than a sinner in church. Arguments sprung back and forth throughout the room- beside him, Prime Minister Attlee of the United Kingdom and its personification, Arthur Kirkland, sat, eyes narrowed and quiet, unspeaking- too quiet.

Personifications were quite strange things to behold. Living as long as the nation lived, barely aging physically, figureheads of the land- every war, every battle for independence- the personification was there. Alfred tensed, glancing away from Arthur and gripping the handles of his seat as a voice rang out, silencing everyone.

"The 56 member states of the United Nations have come to the final vote."

The voice paused, and Alfred's forehead prickled with sweat. He wiped it with his sleeve, and Truman, sitting beside him, glared at the personification's fiddling hands.

"Afghanistan votes against."

Alfred steadied his breathing as his heart dropped-

"Argentina abstains. Belgium in favor."

The list continued to be read- everyone counted votes mentally- until the speaker announced, "The United Kingdom abstains." 

Stiffening in his seat once more, Alfred snuck another glance at Arthur, who kept his eyes fixed ahead- only a brief movement from the eye showed that he was aware of Alfred's sharp gaze.

"The United States in favor."

Truman shifted in his seat. Alfred ripped his gaze once more from the other personification and blinked as the speaker announced that the majority was in favor. Some people cheered or clapped- Alfred smiled, wanly. Truman clasped him on the shoulder, walked away- Alfred watched Attlee, on his other side, do the same.

Like a moth drawn to light, Alfred found his gaze on Arthur, and now that Attlee had gone, Arthur couldn't hide.

"You abstained."

Arthur crossed his legs, chin held high. "You state the obvious."

It seemed they'd never been on good terms, not even after Winston Churchill had spoken of their relationship as 'special', not since the Revolutionary War. Alfred bit the bottom of his lip offhandedly, eyes narrowing.

"Arthur."

He gripped the edge of his seat, knuckles white, lips spread in a thin line, betraying no emotion. "They will die, Alfred. The Arabs will kill them, outnumber them, deface everything. You're a bloody fool if you can't see it."

As if on cue, the voice of the Arab states' delegation rang out clearly, and everyone turned. Standing at the foot of the stairs, prepared to exit, winged by the personification of India and Pakistan- he yelled out, "We will not be bound by this decision, and neither will our brothers. We decide our own destiny. You shall see."

They walked out, the sound of a slammed door resonating throughout. Low murmurs started and spread over the room.

Arthur turned, eyes boring into Alfred's for the first time that day. "You see? You send the Israelites to their deaths."

—

Jews gathered in Tel Aviv to celebrate the entire night after the vote- bonfires were lit, people danced, cafes served free champagne.

It was all short lived.

After the report was released, after everyone had heard the news- the Egyptians and Arab Nations broke out in fury.

—

Alfred had been firm in the belief that Israel deserved their own nation. After Arthur's words, however, he began to doubt. Israel had no army, no Air Force, no means of protection-

"Alfred!"

Shaken out of his thoughts, Alfred looked up, eyes wide. "Sorry, Mr. Truman. You were saying?"

He tapped impatient fingers on his desk, sliding a newspaper to Alfred. The headlines read of more war- an Arab-Israeli war- and while there was joy within Israelites, widespread outrage surged in the neighboring Arab nations.

Alfred exhaled, and murmured, "The British Mandate?"

"I don't know, Alfred. Nothing is certain, and the only thing I'm aware of is the fact that Parliament is debating rigorously. But I believe it's safe to assume that the Mandate will expire, and Britain will pull their troops out of Palestine completely."

"And if Britain relinquishes sovereignty over Palestine, or what it will soon be- what then?"

Truman pushed his glasses up, rocking back in his seat. "You have a brain, Alfred. You've seen how history works. Figure it out."

—

Truman had made it clear that he wasn't interested in getting involved with more carnage. Anyone who tried to help the Israelites were now essentially forfeiting their American passport.

Alfred had already seen that, to some people, losing their nationality didn't matter. Four men, all World War II Air Force veterans, had already left for Panama- and where it was clear as mud that they were trying to smuggle aircraft into Israel for some people, Alfred could see right through their actions.

And he wanted, so badly, to fly with them.

Alfred was born with a strong sense of justice- but maybe that was natural, being a personification. Right now, as he sat in a small café west of New York City, he knew where this justice was pulling him.

Sipping his black coffee, alone, staring out the window beside him as rain pelted down- he knew that he was going to help Israel. It wasn't something he had decided on, or pondered for a year, nor a month- it was there, it was concrete. He was going, because he knew that what was right was what he gravitated toward.

"More coffee, sweetheart?"

He glanced up, pulling out a broad smile and winking. "Sure thing."

The waitress walked away after pouring the black liquid into his half-empty mug, easily charmed, and Alfred let the empty smile slip away.

Insane to think that people don't care what happens, after everything we fought for in World War II, he pondered, fingering his bomber jacket's sleeves absentmindedly.

As had been expected, the British had announced that they were pulling out their troops from Palestine, removing the blockade, leaving entirely. There would be no more British Mandate. And now, they fully supported the partition plan, but would not enforce it. The Mandate was to expire on midnight, May 14, 1948.

Alfred had attended more movies than he wanted to- just to see the news reels.

And now, it was a countdown until the British left. The military coalition of Arab states- Egypt, Transjordan, Syria, Saudi Arabia, and expeditionary forces of Iraq- would most likely attack as soon as the British cleared out.

These Arab nations were now emerging from mandatory rule- but even if they had gained independence from Britain, they would remain under that heavy influence for awhile. Perhaps that would be a good thing- maybe they would be predictable.

Alfred recalled from the news reel that violence was erupting in Palestine already. He remembered catching a glimpse of outbursts against the British still stationed there-

There was a jingle as the door to the café opened. Without turning around, Alfred knew who was approaching him.

"Alfred."

His mouth quirked, and he chimed, "Mr. Truman. How nice of you to join me."

He sat down opposite Alfred in the booth, stern look plastered upon his features. "I'm aware of what you're planning."

Alfred smirked. "Who, me? Why would you ever think such a thing?"

"Stop with the confounded snarkiness, America."

"Do you only say my country name when you're upset?"

Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose irritably. "I'll get to the point, Alfred. You're planning to go to Israel."

"You're very observant."

Truman's lips curved upward. "As much as you deny having relation to Arthur Kirkland, you most certainly inherited his cynicism."

"I suppose that's why we despise each other."

"Alfred, as brilliant as you are when it comes to debate, you can't steer me from what I came here for."

Alfred sipped his coffee and glanced out the window, sight locking on the distance from the door to his motorcycle, facts and figures and mathematical quantities and formulas organizing inside his head when he realized Truman wouldn't let him leave this cafe. "So, what are you here for?"

"We both know what, Alfred."

"Oh, but I don't, Mr. Truman. Care to enlighten me?" And the moment his lips quirked upward on the word 'enlighten,' the lights flickered and the cafe went dark.

There was the roar of a motor, and when the lights flashed back on, Alfred Jones was gone.

—

Alfred had made dramatic escapes before, and he admitted, he had become quite good at doing so- but now he was escaping his own country. There was a certain pang of regret.

Truman threatened to take away American passports if Americans themselves tried to help Israel. But could that really apply to the America? How do you take away a passport from an actual country?

He sped down the freeway, weaving around cars, aware of honking horns and angry curses directed at him. The wonderful thing about being a nation was the immortality that came along.

Don't have enough gas to fly straight to Israel, and especially in a fighter plane, Alfred reasoned. But I can aim for the United Kingdom.

But even that was a stretch. And then there was the possibility that he wouldn't be allowed to land, let alone refill the tank...

And there was Arthur.

"Stop it, brain," Alfred growled as he slowed to a stop in his driveway, legs hitting the pavement as he briskly turned off the engine and sprinted across the wheat fields and into the old, rickety barn.

Surprising, Alfred thought. Truman and his men aren't here. Yet.

He opened the creaking doors- light flooded into the barn, dust specks hovering everywhere the light touched- and inside was his baby: a Bell P-39 Airacobra monoplane fighter.

She hadn't been used since Germany had surrendered.

Alfred smiled fondly and ran his hand along the plane's grey flank, over the 60, painted in bold, white letters, over the white star, and took one last breath before his fingers touched the words "Airacobra."

A brilliant memory, flashing with color, flooded into his mind.

"What are you doing with that bloody paint?"

"It's actually white, Arthur. Are you color blind?"

Alfred narrowed his eyes bitterly. There were some things that were too wonderful to remember, and painfully hard to be pushed away.

He made sure the fuel tank was full, and hopped inside the cockpit, pulling goggles over his eyes and starting the engine. The familiar pump of adrenaline, of energy, the feeling that came over you just before you recited a speech or poem, hit Alfred all at once, and there was a slight tinge of fear, of the knowledge that he may not be able to return to this place.

And with the burden of consequence hanging over his head like a damp cloud, Alfred was out of the barn, down the makeshift runway that was an empty row for wheat, and in the air.

—


	2. It Takes Two to Tango

Alfred had never understood the concept of time zones.

_Damn,_ he cursed inwardly.  _I most definitely did not think this through._

He started having second thoughts that turned into conversations with himself halfway through the 8 hour trip- such as: "When it's 6:00 p.m. in New York, it's 11:00 p.m. in the United Kingdom, and since I left at noon, I should be there at 8, but if there's a five hour distance between us, then I'll be there at… 2… in the  _morning_?"

If he didn't get shot down from the sky, it would be a miracle.

_At least I have my passport, yeah?_

And there was always the possibility he didn't make it to land, which came to his attention when he remembered how little fuel the _Airacobra_  could carry. Sure, he had made adjustments in the past to the fuselage, the armament, and the wings (which carried the fuel), and he was  _slightly_ confident that it wouldn't fail him now.

Slightly.

As he flew in the dark, early morning, land suddenly came into sight- and so did a beautiful British Spitfire fighter plane, speeding toward him with all elegance and dominance.

_Ah, shit._

The Spitfire grew closer, closer- then just as it reached Alfred, it shot up, escalating in the sky at an unfathomable angle, disappearing in the dark above him. For a brief moment, Alfred panicked- his nerves sharpened, breaths became harder, because the  _Airacobra_ was a low altitude fighter, and made for ground attack, and very, _very_ vulnerable to high altitude fighters- like the Spitfire.

Alfred exhaled sharply through his mask, eyes searching for the Spitfire, when suddenly, the drone of an engine came from behind, and loud popping noises, sounds alike to walking on eggshells, fired out.

He yanked the Airacobra down, and the Spitfire followed behind him, shots still ringing out rapid-fire. Adrenaline raced through Alfred, and he shot back up and around, circling the Spitfire and narrowly missing being blown into the sky.

_Alright, you wanna play? Let's play._

Without thinking of the consequences, Alfred escalated higher into the air, swiftly jerked the Airacobra backwards, its grey belly facing the dark sky, and then flipped- diving straight for the Spitfire- and he jammed the bullet-fire button with his thumb. The massive 37 MM cannon was fired through the propeller hub, or nose of the plane, and although it was slow on firing release, it could be quite devastating when fired accurately- and Alfred was  _very_  good at doing just that.

The Spitfire climbed quickly, twirling around and barely missing Alfred's skilled shots- on a due course of collision with the other.

"Bastard!" Alfred hissed out, yanking his plane hard left- the Airacobra shot swiftly in that direction.

He glanced to the fuel reading- almost out, no thanks to the high speed maneuvers.  _I need to land._

The Spitfire was following him, shots firing around the Airacobra like popping fireworks, and Alfred headed for land- the land being a rocky coast with no form of civilization in sight. The flank of the Airacobra was hit- but nothing absolutely devastating- and that's when Alfred realized that he was being  _forced_ into grounding. His blood boiled, and the classic, prideful 19-year-old kicked in.  _I'm only grounding because I need fuel, buddy. You couldn't take me down if you wanted to._

The landing was rocky, and as he roughly skidded to a halt in the dark, smoke and mist rising all around, he had to pry his hands from the trigger, and realized that his hands were trembling violently.

But the fact that he felt as if he were reliving nightmares from the all-too-recent WW2 would have to wait. The Spitfire landed smoothly a few yards north of Alfred, and someone jumped out gracefully, brown boots kicking the rocks beneath. He walked over, sub-machine gun in hand, wearing a hazel-colored flight jacket over his uniform, which bore the insignia of the Royal Air Force.

_Freakin' hell,_ Alfred thought, tearing off his mask angrily, opening the right side of his cockpit and stepping out, legs weak after the heavy duty flying, and snapped, "Do you know just  _who_ you've been shooting at?"

Smoothly twirling his gun in the palm of his hand, the other looked up dismissively. "Do you think I give a bloody damn?" He slipped off the standard furry aviator hat and pushed his goggles up on his forehead, green eyes contemptuous and glittering.

And Alfred almost backflipped off the cliff.

"Arthur  _freaking_ Kirkland! What the  _hell,_ man?!" Alfred hissed, half surprised and half furious that he had practically been  _defeated_ by his old  _caretaker,_ of all people. And the fact that "said caretaker" could fly a Spitfire with that much skill was even more shocking.

Arthur raised an eyebrow and scuffed his boot against the rocks. "I don't believe I have the displeasure of knowing your name."

Alfred tore off his aviator hat and goggles, hair springing up with sweat and looking absolutely dreadful. There were about 10 Nantuckets springing from his hair as opposed to just one. Arthur's eyes widened for a split second, and then he shouted, "Alfred! You bleeding idiot, do you think you can just  _fly_ your way into the United Kingdom at 2 in the morning?!"

Alfred bristled. "I had to get out of America."

The moment the words fell from his lips, Arthur fell silent, startled and confused. He looked Alfred up and down, and then tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. "The great personification  _fleeing_ his own country? I don't believe it."

Alfred wanted to scoff.  _You think I don't realize you're just trying to get information out of me?_ "I don't care. I need fuel, and then I'll be on my way." Trying to change the subject, Alfred huffily grumbled, "By the way, that's the only reason I grounded the plane."

Arthur appeared to take the bait and his lips quirked upward. "It didn't look that way when I tried to scare you off by attempting to kamikaze into you. Which,  _by the way,_ worked." Before Alfred could respond, Arthur's expression darkened dangerously and hit his chest with the tip of his gun. "Now, start talking."

On impulse, Alfred wanted to hit Arthur with all the force he was capable of hitting with, but pushed away that irrational thought. The best way to get what he desperately needed- fuel- was to give in. "You know the Israelites are in trouble. The moment the British pull out of Palestine, the Arabs will attack. You told me yourself in the meeting, remember?"

Arthur remained silent, still, gun touching Alfred's chest. Alfred continued. "Our president won't let us help them.  _They don't even have an air force,_ Arthur-"

"So you snuck out of your country. You're on your way to Israel, flying an  _Airacobra_ , of all things, to become a pilot in the Israeli Air Force."

Alfred shrugged, breeze blowing his wild hair every which way. Arthur lowered his gun slowly, and his expression became carefully neutral. "We're on the coast of Ilfracombe, England. Did you know that?"

"No."

"It's two hours from Penzance."

Alfred stiffened. "Where you live, correct?"

Arthur brushed his bangs from his eyes. "I can get you fuel. But we won't be back here and in the air until roughly 6 in the morning."

Alfred's brow scrunched. " _We?"_

Arthur smirked, eyes glittering, and he turned around, motioning Alfred to follow. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, didn't I? I am apart of the Israeli Air Force. Surprise."

—

 


	3. Entranced

_Arthur was in his peripheral vision. "Don't play coy with me, Jones."_

_Alfred was grateful for the distraction Arthur provided. War was often ingrained in the mind, hard to escape from, but Arthur had a certain quality, a certain aura, that allowed you to escape and focus on solely him. Blue eyes met green. "Naming my plane. That's what I'm doin' with the paint."_

_Arthur bit his lip, and Alfred, at the time, didn't understand why. "Ah, I see. Cheerio, then."_

_But I don't want you to leave, Alfred thought he said, but Arthur kept on walking- and then everything burst into colors and disoriented shapes-_

"Alfred."

His eyes opened, and he sat up straighter in his seat. Arthur was driving- it was still dark, early morning. He looked uncomfortable, fingers drumming on the wheel, and he glanced back at Alfred, face dancing with shadows from outside. "Apologies for waking you, but I must ask you a question."

"Uh-huh?"

His lips tilted upward, and he looked as if he were holding back laughter. "Where on earth did you learn how to fly?"

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

Arthur hummed, looking up at the top of the Mini Cooper with a finger on his chin. "I suppose both."

"I think the real question is how did an old man like _you_ learn how to fly."

"And I thought your deductive skills were on par," Arthur sniffed. "I may not have been outward about it, but I was trained in the RAF before World War II."

"Why didn't you fly?" Alfred asked, ignoring the jab to his pride, eyes trained on Arthur's profile.

Arthur visibly stiffened, and his eyes fell for a brief moment, before he changed the subject. "Quite talkative, aren't you? We never get along this well, let alone have _nice_ conversation."

Alfred raised his eyebrows and decided to leave his previous question alone. "If you're asking for a mean debate, I've got one ready-"

"No thank you. Contrary to popular belief, I don't go around asking for fights." He paused, and then cynically added, "Especially with people lesser than me."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Well, isn't that a problem? Because I'm bigger than you."

Arthur threw up a hand. "And  _here we go_."

"You started it."

"You're an immature arse and I refuse to banter meaninglessly with you."

"But we're bantering right now."

"We are not!"

"Are so."

"Are not."

"Ha!" Alfred pointed at him triumphantly. "Now you're the 'immature  _arse_ ,'" Alfred mimicked.

They both paused, glanced at each other, and Arthur frowned. "Well played, Jones. But I still whooped your  _bloody arse_ flying, didn't I?"

"I was running out of fuel. If you think shooting at someone who is obviously at a disadvantage is 'whooping,' then by all means, go tell everyone you shot down someone who was trying to land anyway."

Arthur was smirking, and he glanced at Alfred. "Arseface."

"Asshole."

—

It was strange to Alfred that Arthur just had gallons of gasoline in his garage, but hey, "everyone has their own," as the nice old lady down the street always said.

The ride back was much quieter than the first, and Alfred found himself sneaking glances at his ally. He still looked the same as he always had. Eyes jade green, blonde hair unruly and stringy, eyebrows monstrous in a way only he could make look good. And Alfred, every time he glanced at him, remembered a time he only dreamed about, a perfect moment that hadn't lasted, a moment that he would never admit he had cherished.

_Since when did I become so fond of you?_

"I thought Israel didn't have an Air Force. How are you the head of it?"

Arthur looked like he had been shaken out of a dream, but he recovered quickly, and responded, "Well, I suppose that is a slight exaggeration." He looked at Alfred pointedly. " _Slight._ Right now, we just need to smuggle planes into Israel. And people- we need people to fly. There are no ranks or uniforms. It's very disorganized, and I'm in charge of organizing it."

"How many recruits do you have?"

"Not many. And we're working on smuggling planes from Czechoslovakia."

They both fell into an uncomfortable silence until Alfred brought up another question. "At the meeting, you said Israel had no chance."

Arthur looked straight ahead, expression neutral. "I did."

"And you obviously had a change of heart. Why?"

"I never said I didn't hope that the Israelites would win. And I have learned much about them the past few months, where the Israeli Air Force-  _IAF_ \- has been stationed in Tel Aviv. They are tough, quite a force to be reckoned with." He glanced at Alfred. "I came back to England on a mission to acquire more aircraft- So, let me be clear when I say that you aren't the only one who is fleeing their country, Jones." Their eyes locked, and Arthur quickly looked back to the road.

Alfred held back surprise when Arthur (one of the most patriotic personas Alfred knew) implied that he was breaking rules to help Israel, too, but decided that was a touchy subject that Arthur clearly didn't want to speak about. He'd learned from long ago to tread carefully into Arthur's personal waters- you had to gain his trust, his friendship. And Alfred knew- he could tell- that Arthur was still  _very_  wary around him, despite the mildly friendly atmosphere that had surfaced. It was as if Arthur was just waiting for Alfred to stab him in the back and run off. And Alfred wondered if he could ever gain that trust back after he had damaged it so terribly. But, instead, he asked, "Why would you fight for someone that you think will lose?"

Arthur simply shrugged. "Because it's right."

—

May 10, 1948

Alfred had never been in Palestine- or what would soon be Israel in four days when the British Mandate expired- but it was quite different from what he expected.

Arthur and he were in Tel Aviv, which was located on the west coast. It was hot and sticky, and there were strange white buildings everywhere, mixed with palm trees and desert, and a beach- which Arthur strictly forbid Alfred from going to on the grounds that he should at least  _attempt_ to be a mature adult.

And the people all seemed happy. There were parades in the streets- nothing too flashy, but they still attracted many people. It was a relatively lively city- there seemed to be a cafe or bar open on every street, people conversing cheerfully. Alfred had received warm welcome from many, even if English wasn't the common language. Arthur was well-known in Tel Aviv, and knew hebrew: when Alfred had asked him why, he discovered that Arthur had been here many times throughout the British Mandate.

The headquarters of the IAF was on the outskirts of Tel Aviv. It was a small building, and beside it was a hangar for the planes and equipment, which had a short runway for take-off. It was small, it was unorganized, and there was barely any technology. According to Arthur, they were scrambling to gather planes- in Czechoslovakia, 25 Avia S-199s had been purchased and were en route.

Alfred would stay with Arthur in a small building, located in the heart of Tel Aviv. There were two bedrooms, a singe bathroom, and a kitchen crammed into a tiny space. When Alfred stepped in, he stated, "Please tell me there's  _at least_  a coffee maker."

Arthur walked past him, obviously amused. "Whatsoever did you do when coffee rations were enforced?"

Alfred huffed, "Oh, like you and the tea rations?"

"At least I have self-control. You can't go anywhere without the blasted beverage."

"First of all, no one calls coffee a  _beverage,_ old man. And secondly- does that mean there isn't a coffee machine?"

Arthur shook his head with a contemptuous smirk on his face. Alfred sighed, dejected, and wondered how smoothly mornings would go- 1942, the year of coffee rations, had felt like the toughest year of his life, and he wasn't looking forward to a relapse.

Arthur broke him from his thoughts. "We'll be living together again."

Alfred felt heavy tension suddenly rise between him and Arthur.  _Again. We've been separated for such a long time that I've forgotten what it's like living with him. Since the Revolutionary War…_

They both spoke at the same time, and then awkwardly broke off, ushering the other to go ahead.  _What is this, middle school?_ Alfred mused. But he observed the way Arthur refused to make eye contact, the way Arthur rubbed his arms with his hands, the way Arthur bit his lip anxiously, and hoped to God that it wouldn't be this way the entire battle for Israel.

"Arthur, you know I don't want to talk about…  _that_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur snapped, quickly and defensively, taking Alfred off guard at the ferocity of his tone. "I just want you to bloody well know that I get the bathroom first in the morning."

Alfred rolled his eyes, fiddled with the sleeves of his bomber jacket, and felt awkward and almost embarrassed for merely mentioning the past to an obviously reluctant and still bitter Arthur.  _But in my defense, he started it._

Arthur turned around and walked into his bedroom, slamming the door, leaving Alfred to watch helplessly after him.  _Well, you've managed to screw things up between you and Arthur once again. Good going._

—


	4. Perspective

May 11, 1948

" _Wait- Arthur. I'm… not very good at paintin' names."_

_He turned, eyes wide and eyebrows high, as if Alfred indirectly asking his help were something he thought would have never happened. And Alfred thought he would turn around and leave, leave Alfred embarrassed and alone. But he came back, quietly, knelt gently beside Alfred, murmured, "You have to have a still hand, yes?" He took the large brush from Alfred's hands, wrapped his small fingers around it, and then took Alfred's hand, placing it over his own._

_Alfred inhaled sharply, because Arthur didn't let people touch him, didn't let people be this close to him, didn't help others without making sure they knew he was only doing it for his own benefit-_

The sound of a door shutting woke Alfred. He glanced to the clock, tried to sit up, and promptly groaned, falling backward for a few minutes before standing and walking into the kitchen after a short glance into Arthur's bedroom. _He must have left._

Throwing on his bomber jacket, Alfred walked outside, quickly reminded that Tel Aviv was hot as hell, and found himself standing in a swarm of people. They were conversing jovially, lined up the street, and Alfred assumed it was another parade. He didn't stay- instead, he was drawn to a nearby cafe, where there was air conditioning.

As he stepped in, he spotted Arthur, sipping tea, aimlessly looking ahead, eyes unfocused, as if he were in a dream.

_If I sit beside him, will he run?_

Alfred's fingers curled instinctively around the sleeves of his jacket, and walked forward, sitting in front of him and pulling out a broad, charming smile. "Arthur."

Arthur didn't look surprised, didn't looked charmed, and muttered dismissively, "Jones."

_I'm trying to say sorry,_ Alfred wanted to voice as his smile fell.  _I want us to be close again. I don't want to fight, and neither do you._

Arthur glanced up at him again, their eyes awkwardly meeting and then falling. His voice, quiet and reserved, caught Alfred's ears. "There's… there's coffee. Here." He coughed, fell silent, and his fingers wound around his cup, as if he were embarrassed.

Alfred realized he was trying to apologize, too, and he felt himself smiling- naturally. "Yeah?"

Arthur nodded, lifting the tea to his lips. Alfred ran fingers up the sleeve of his jacket, crossing his arms on the table. "Then, I suppose I'll grab some and join you."

"As much as I am appalled by the smell of the ghastly stuff, I suppose that would be fine," Arthur conceded, obviously trying to hide the fact that he was pleased. Alfred kept to his word, once again sitting after paying for the most wonderful part of his morning, and asked, "Will we be at the IAF headquarters?"

Drumming his fingers against the table, Arthur shrugged. "If you would like. Your atrocious flying skills need work, anyhow."

Alfred slapped a hand across his chest, feigning hurt. "You wound me, Arthur."

"I  _am_ an Empire. It would only be appropriate if I did so."

Alfred felt his heart swell almost painfully with some strange, awkward feeling as Arthur's eyes closed and he cheekily  _grinned,_ endearing and charming  _and something Arthur never did._

—

They exited the cafe, and the streets were alight with music and dancing people and laughter- Alfred grinned. How these people could be so happy, with a war looming over their heads, he would never know.

Arthur was looking up at him, green eyes alight. "Do you dance, Jones?"

"Do you?" Alfred shot back, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

Smirking, Arthur shrugged. "On occasion."

Before Alfred had a chance to reply, a young girl came out of the huge crowd and grasped Arthur's arm, dragging him into the dancing mob. His eyes widened, and he glanced back at Alfred, as if he yelling,  _Help me, idiot!_ Alfred just laughed, arms folded over his chest, until he was pulled into the crowd, too, and everything was a whirling, exhilarating mess.

And suddenly, Arthur was thrown into his arms, hair tousled and shirt rumpled, and their eyes met. Arthur was laughing, a sound Alfred had forgotten in the recesses of his memory. Everyone in the crowd was sweating from the overbearing heat, and Alfred probably smelled horrible, but if Arthur noticed, he didn't say anything- and Alfred felt his breath catch as the sun blurred out some of Arthur's face, making him shine.

The music ended, the people stopped dancing, weaving around each other and conversing. Alfred let go of Arthur awkwardly, and Arthur self-consciously scratched the back of his head, biting his lip. He coughed, "Shall we go?"

Alfred nodded, and they walked to the IAF headquarters in uncomfortable silence, until they reached the hangar, and Arthur chuckled, "You're almost as bad at dancing as you are at flying."

—

_May_ 14, 1948

"Arthur! I  _need_ to use the bathroom!" Alfred pounded on the door for the eighth time that morning.

"I'm in the bath. You'll have to wait," was the calm reply, as if Alfred  _wasn't about to explode._

" _Arthur,_ you let me in, or I'll break the door!"

"I'm frightened, really."

Alfred groaned, slid down the door, and collapsed onto the floor in misery. It was at least half an hour before the door opened, and Arthur sauntered out with a towel around his waist, almost tripping over the pile of despair that was Alfred in the doorway.

When Alfred  _finally_ was relived of the devastating pain, he and Arthur stopped at the cafe for coffee and tea, and then walked to the Dizengoff house, where crowds were gathering to hear the official announcement of Israeli independence. Alfred, as the first prime minister of Israel, David Ben-Gurion, started declaring Israel's independence, leaned over and whispered in Arthur's ear, "Are you upset that the British Mandate expires tonight?"

Arthur stared ahead, expressions carefully neutral. "Why?"

Shrugging, Alfred looked up at the sky.  _Don't you always get upset when you lose something?_ "Palestine isn't under your control anymore."

"It's always hard to let go of the things one holds dear. But change happens, whether you're ready or not. I've learned.." he trailed off, glanced up at Alfred, and finished, "that it's easier to be _ready_  to let go."

Alfred pondered this for a moment, tried to ignore the not-so-subtle hint about his independence that both were still sore about, and murmured, "But, if you live life always ready to let go, you'll never be able to trust anyone."

"Maybe that's a good thing."

"I don't think so."

Arthur's facial expression turned mischievous, and he asked, "Will you bet on it?"

"On what? The fact that you think trusting someone is bad?"

"I never said  _bad_. I implied that if you always trust everyone, they'll eventually stab you in the back."

"Fine," Alfred conceded. "I'll bet that a day will come when you'll trust someone completely."

Arthur scowled, but before he could reply, his attention shifted to Ben-Gurion as he finished with the words, "We will hold the full social and political equality of all its citizens, without distinction of religion, of race." Victorious cheers rang out. People kissed, hugged, cried tears of joy.

The British Mandate would expire at midnight.

And suddenly, Alfred felt a foreboding sense of dread fall upon him.

 

 


	5. Visiting Hours

_Their hands connected on the brush, Arthur guided the bristles to the side of the plane, and then turned his head slightly toward Alfred, their noses inches from brushing. Alfred stiffened, but Arthur looked relaxed, and he asked, "What's the name?"_

_It took a moment for Alfred to process the question. His brain was never this slow- what was happening? "Uh.. I…"_

" _You don't have a name for your plane, do you?" Arthur laughed, and then everything paused, rewound, crumbled into static, a picture of Arthur dancing as the sun illuminated him-_

Alfred was jostled out of his sleep by a loud crash. He jumped out of his bed, wide awake, instinctively grabbed his  _Reising_ gun, and stormed into the kitchen-

There was an Israeli-looking man, pocket knife held to Arthur's neck, standing there, looking uncertain more than hostile. Arthur spotted Alfred, motioned for him to leave, but Alfred felt a wave of possession surge though him, and pointed his  _Reising_ to the other man's head.

"Drop him."

The man, seeming to know Alfred was a force to be reckoned with, did as he was told, knife falling out of his hands, clattering to the floor. Arthur, in the middle of the two, held one hand out toward Alfred and the other toward the unknown man, hissing, "Lower your gun."

"Not a chance in hell," Alfred snapped, eyes still focused on the taller man behind Arthur.

"He is like us, Alfred. Look at him." Arthur moved out of Alfred's line of sight, gesturing to the other. Alfred glared- there was nothing noticeable- and lowered the gun slowly, trying to understand what Arthur wanted him to see.

Arthur turned, satisfied, toward the other man, and held up his hands calmly. The man looked to Arthur, and then to Alfred, expressions varying from unsure to defensive. Arthur glanced at Alfred, and murmured, "You're confused. You don't know why you are here. Yes?"

The man nodded, dark eyes shifting to the gun in Alfred's hands. Arthur continued, "He is the United States of America. He won't hurt you."

It dawned on Alfred, finally, that this man was not a human, but another personification: the new personification of Israel. He only understood what was in terms of countries: he had no knowledge of a human, of how to act like one.

"I am the British Empire." Arthur laid a hand over his chest. "I am your ally."

The personification seemed to relax slightly, but the fearful glances at Alfred told otherwise. Arthur turned and glared at him, as if saying, _you bloody idiot, look what you did!_ Alfred, shooting a nasty glare back at Arthur, set the gun on the counter and approached slowly, standing by his side. "Do you have a name?"

Arthur sighed, as if that was something strictly forbidden that you shouldn't ask, but the man nodded, and spoke in thick-accented English, "My name… is Sefi."

Sefi was not a young personification- he looked just as old as Arthur, in some respects. Alfred knew that there had been an Israel of some sorts since time began, but it had been an empire that dominated and  _was_  dominated- many times. Arthur asked Sefi where he was from: Sefi didn't know. He spoke of blinding white light, and then darkness- when he woke, he was outside, alone, in the dark. He had walked into the nearest building, where he saw Arthur mulling through the kitchen, and had panicked when Arthur turned and caught sight of him.

"What do you know?" Alfred asked, sitting on one of the stools near the counter.

Sefi looked overwhelmed, but spoke quietly, "You are  _America._ You have a strange connection to the  _British Empire_. You are loud, nosy, obnoxious, and overbearing." He then glanced at Arthur. "You are  _England_ \- cynical, neurotic, passive-aggressive, and possessive."

Arthur scoffed, rolling his eyes, and Alfred shrugged. "That's actually pretty correct."

"But… you are both kind." Sefi was staring into a void that neither Alfred nor Arthur could see. "That is all I know."

"Do you know why we are here?"

Sefi looked up again, focusing in on Alfred. "You are not supposed to be here." Alfred stiffened and flinched, growing quiet. Sefi gazed at Arthur. "Neither are you. In fact, you are smuggling in planes from your own country."

Arthur met his gaze cooly, not backing down. "So I am."

Alfred found himself admiring his defiance, his courage, and then berated himself at thinking those irrational things as Sefi smiled for the first time, as if delighted by Arthur's reaction. "You are both good. That is why you are here."

It was strange, and Alfred didn't understand what he meant. If Arthur was taken aback, it didn't show. "What do you know of the other countries?"

"Francis Bonnefoy, personification of France," Sefi murmured monotonously, as if he were reading from a book."The country of love and passion well-reflected in its personification. Ivan Braginsky, personification of the Soviet Union, enigmatic and ambitious. Suffered hardships as a young nation and feels the need to make things right again. Yao Wang, personification of the People's Republic of China, who could wreak havoc at the snap of a finger, but carefully and cautiously contains himself."

Odd it was, hearing about his allies in such an unbiased way. Alfred listened as Arthur continued, "And do you understand what is happening now?"

"I am… being attacked, no?" Sefi asked, accent surfacing heavily. "By the Arab League. Egypt… Transjordan… Syria… Iraq."

"That is correct. And you are a brand new country. But-" Arthur crossed his arms, walking to the window and peering out into the darkness. "Your people have much to fight for, Sefi. And you are not alone."

Sefi smiled. "My mind tells me that you are pessimistic, but my heart… says differently."

Arthur snorted. "I'm not trying to comfort you, I'm comforting myself. I am  _quite_ pessimistic, thank you."

Alfred broke in cheerfully, "We're organizing the Israeli Air Force!"

"Excuse you,  _I_ am organizing the Israeli Air Force, arse."

Sefi looked bewildered and amused all at once, and murmured something in Hebrew that had Arthur stammering and growing red-faced immediately, and whatever it was, obviously neither were going to tell Alfred.

Arthur claimed that Sefi could have Alfred's bedroom, to Alfred's chagrin. He expected to sleep on the cold, stiff, lonely couch, when a quiet, subdued voice sounded behind him. "You…can sleep with me, Alfred."

Alfred paused and turned, eyes wide, to Arthur, who looked awkward, standing there, rubbing his forearms. "Of course, if you don't want-"

"No, I do-" Their voices overlapped, and the two broke off, avoiding eye contact. Alfred felt himself growing irritated.  _I'm always smooth when speaking. It's when Arthur's around I feel stupid and humiliate myself, isn't it?_

Exhaling, Alfred murmured without realizing what he was saying, "It's really no problem. I'm fine on the couch."

Arthur bit his lip, and Alfred held back a wince at his own tone. "Cheerio, then."

As soon as he disappeared into his bedroom, Alfred fell face forward onto the couch, trying to hold in a frustrated shriek.

—

 


	6. Spitfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, people. I love all of you. Yeah, you reading this- I love you!  
> Ah, just wanted you all to know that I know that some words in Hebrew are pronounced just like they are in English. But for the purpose of this book... let's pretend that no one can understand what these Hebrew words mean, ok?  
> I like feedback, even if it's not all positive. :)

May 15, 1948

" _Well, I'll help you." Arthur was smiling impishly. "Why not something distinctly… American?"_

_Alfred couldn't stop staring at him, couldn't fix his confounded brain on Arthur's words. "American?"_

" _Unless you wish differently," Arthur shrugged. They were close- closer than they had been since Arthur had been left behind in the mud and rain that one day. And just like that, they were there, on that blood-stained battlefield, Arthur was his enemy, was his everything-_

Alfred half expected to wake to bombs and shrapnel flying everywhere, but everything was quiet. Light filtered in rectangular sections on his face, uncomfortable and itchy fabric grinding into his skin and leaving imprints, leaving a grim reminder of where he could have slept. He stretched, sat up, and his nose caught the aroma of something very familiar. Glancing at the table beside the hideously tacky couch, Alfred spotted a cup filled with black coffee. There was a small piece of paper peeping out from under- Alfred tentatively dragged it out from its confines and read it.

_I'll be at Sde Dov. Make sure Sefi stays with you at all times. He needs to be protected._

"Sde Dov" was a term for the IAF base, or headquarters. Alfred tried to restrain a smile- Arthur would never cease surprising him. Either that, or making him feel bad about previous words exchanged between them. He folded the piece of paper in his pocket, carefully avoiding smudging Arthur's neat handwriting. Standing, he picked up the coffee, and knocked on Sefi's door.

"Sefi, can I come in?"

There was no reply. Frowning, Alfred creaked the door open slightly- he saw Sefi kneeling beside his bed, hands covering his forehead. Slowly, he looked at Alfred, a horrified gleam in his eyes. With a shell-shocked expression, he breathed out, "The Egyptians are coming."

Everything was silent. Alfred didn't process his words until-

Their worlds were jostled, both thrown to the ground instantly, ground shaking with the force of a loud  _CRACK!_ But it was more than just a crack- it was deafening, ear-piercing, explosive, and Alfred tried to grab Sefi, both covering their ears.

Screams and shrieks of terror overlapped with the monotone, high-pitched whine ringing in Alfred's ears, and a sense of deja vu came upon him. He couldn't think straight, he felt like he was in a dream- no sound, no color, blurry and hypnotic, World War II all over again.

Sefi was clutching his head, and sound came flooding back to Alfred- he was wailing. Alfred knew the pain- terrible, mind-splitting, consuming pain that only personified countries could feel- specifically when they were under attack. He gripped Sefi by the shoulders, trying to grab his attention, when Sefi hissed out, "It's  _not over, Alfred. They're aiming for Sde Dov."_

_Arthur._

Alfred grabbed Sefi and dragged him out of the house by his arm, and as they cleared the door, another plane was tearing through the sky, zooming past the heart of Tel Aviv. Hair flying in disarray, Alfred watched the plane drop into a dive, lower, lower, disappearing behind white buildings, and another deafening crack was heard, the explosion seen as it rose slightly above the silhouette of the buildings.

Sefi cried out again, clutching onto Alfred shoulder as if Alfred hadn't tried to shoot him hours ago. Alfred was lost in thought, ears still ringing, trying to balance himself against the force of the trembling ground.  _Of course they would aim for Sde Dov. Take out our only weapons in the sky, and you've lowered morale faster than anything._

" _Alfred,_ " Sefi gasped out. "Arthur. England. We must go."

Alfred tried to make sense of his words as people on the streets screamed and fled for their houses, for protection. "Arthur needs help?"

Sefi nodded. Alfred attempted to guide him back inside, but Sefi pushed against him. "No. I am coming with you. I must."

"But if Sde Dov is under attack, I can't lead you there, the  _personification of Israel_ -"

"And you are the personification of the United States!" Sefi growled in his thick accent, obviously trying not to clutch at his head, eyes determined. "I am coming with you."

Alfred paused, decided he didn't have time to force Sefi into staying, and took off toward the building on the outskirts of Tel Aviv, Sefi at his side. It was ridiculously _stupid,_ running _straight to_  the target of attack, and if Sefi wasn't hurt anymore than he could be, Alfred would be surprised.

As they neared Sde Dov, Alfred heard alarms ringing and chaotic shouts coming from within. Running into the main building with no hesitation whatsoever, Alfred hopped up the steps, hoping Sefi was near, and collided with a few pilots. He grabbed the nearest one, and shouted, "Arthur! Where is Arthur Kirkland, damn it!?"

The pilot, who looked more terror-stricken than ready to fight, squeaked out an "I don't know." Alfred released him, glanced around the room: no sight of Arthur. Sefi was suddenly at his side, eyes glazed over, as if he were looking at something. "He is at the north building, near the hangar and runway."

A personification, when in their own land, could locate anyone, human or not, within a microsecond. Alfred bolted out of the main building, and just as he exited and caught view of the hangar where the few planes and hodgepodge of equipment were stored, shrapnel and dirt exploded aways in front of him, and he was thrown to the ground, ears ringing once again.

Staggering to his feet, Alfred stumbled inside the hangar, where the wall had been blown out. Jumping down the fragmented concrete slabs, he saw shattered plane particles and small fires, dust and smoke billowing from the east quadrant. The west side- which hadn't been destroyed- was being evacuated. Pilots were pushing the remaining planes out the entrance and down the runway.

_But they'll be clear targets to the Royal Egyptian Air Force outside,_ Alfred thought.  _Unless-_

He made the decision that if he took out the REAF bomber, he would have a better chance of protecting the one he was searching for. Alfred sprinted down the hangar, past surprised pilots, searching for his plane. The Airacobra must have been evacuated, because it was gone, and beside the empty space was Arthur's Spitfire.

_Arthur's Spitfire._

Praying to God that Arthur wouldn't kill him (and he wouldn't kill himself), Alfred hopped inside and opened the throttle. Shouts came from other pilots in the hangar. Sliding on the aviator hat and goggles that were in the cockpit  _(was Arthur's head really this small?),_ Alfred took off down the runway, ushering people out of his way with a swipe of his hand.

The Spitfire had to reach speeds of at least 140 mph before climbing into the air. Alfred had only flown one once, and that had been a _simulator._ The plane was fast, maneuverable, and completely daunting if you'd never flown one before. Alfred bit his lip as the speed increased too slowly for his liking- the runway was disappearing. He decided to start climbing early- and as the runway completely vanished, he was escalating into the sky.

Letting out a whoop of excitement, Alfred heard a voice fade in from the radio- " _You bastard. What the hell are you doing?"_

"Trying to save your ass." There was a inward sigh of relief when Arthur's voice sounded, unharmed and insulting as ever.

" _By killing yourself? I thought the coffee would clear your bloody imbecilic tendencies, but apparently not."_

"Can we talk about this later? I got a REAF plane trailin' me." The radar's alarm was ringing, and the fuzzy black screen on the panel in front of him showed a green object behind him. Alfred jerked the plane to the side too hard, unused to the light controls, and the Spitfire shot through the sky at alarming high speeds.

" _You're going to kill yourself."_

"Then help me!" Alfred hissed, trying to control the plane as it circled around the other. Cracking, popping noises cut through the air as the enemy aircraft fired at him.

" _I'm only helping you because I don't want my plane scratched, Jones. Don't over-stress the wings, because the lateral controls are lighter than the Airacobra. Don't stall. It's difficult to do. Don't dive. You'd lose control. If you want to loop, hit a maximum speed of 300. There are two machine guns and two 20mm cannons in the wings. And, unlike your plane, the Spitfire has no gun in the nose."_

Trying to memorize Arthur's words, Alfred steadied the Spitfire and avoided the rapid-fire shots, attempting and failing to maneuver into a position that would allow him to fire back. It was difficult: the enemy knew what he was trying to do, and blocked him out.

"Shit. I can't  _do_ anything!" Alfred veered left, avoiding more bullets.

There was a pause, and then Arthur's static voice came over the radio. " _Do you remember when I faked kamikaze? It's specifically a Japanese maneuver. No one expects other nationalities to do it."_

The words sinking into his brain slowly, mathematical figures bouncing around in his head, Alfred shifted in his seat. "I remember."

" _Not a scratch, Jones."_

"Roger that," Alfred replied, speeding up and circling wide, facing the other plane head on. Just as Alfred had been when Arthur made the move, the enemy was frozen by surprise, and was forced to jerk his plane downward as Alfred neared, closer and closer-

Alfred yanked the throttle up, the Spitfire shooting into the sky at speeds Alfred wished the Airacobra could reach. As the plane reached maximum velocity for looping, as Arthur had instructed, Alfred pulled backward, adjusting momentarily to the turbulent feeling of flying upside down, hissing out, "Surprise,  _bastard_." He spiraled down, directly above the REAF plane, and jammed the fire button with his thumb.

The shots were quick and perfectly accurate- resounding with an explosive-like blast. Smoke billowed out of the hole where the engine had been hit. The plane veered out west as Alfred pulled up before they could collide into each other, toward the coast, where the beach was extensive- a good place for crash landing.

There were suddenly multiple cheers over the radio. Alfred whooped, shooting through the sky, directly over Sde Dov. "How was  _that,_ Kirkland?"

Over the cheers, he heard a brief hum. " _Tolerable, I suppose."_

—

Alfred landed at Sde Dov, and was met with suffocating hugs and words of gratitude, not only from the air staff of the IAF, but from the commoners as well. He'd shot down plenty of planes before, but this felt the most satisfying. And, of course, his eyes caught the lone figure of his radio operator leaning against the side of the building, boots kicking the dirt, lips quirked into a small smile, Sefi beside him. As soon as he was given space, Alfred approached them, hands in his jacket's pockets, whistling, "Tolerable?"

Arthur snorted. "Barely. And, you left Sefi alone."

"Sefi didn't seem to care. Did you?" Alfred grinned at the other personification, who shook his head and chucked.

"You are quite talented, אמריקה," Sefi said, wincing and covering his head with a hand. A small stain of red showed through his shirt. The effects of being attacked still were present- Alfred remembered the feeling all too well.

"You should tell  _Arthur_ that."

Arthur ignored the comment. "The plane you shot down crashed on the coast. The  _Haganah-_ the main ground army of Israel- rode out and took the pilot prisoner. You also managed to scare off the other three REAF pilots," He stated, glancing at Alfred.

"There were three others?"

"Tel Aviv was their main goal, not just  _Sde Dov_. The threatened kamikaze must have felt like a warning to them- they deserted as soon as you shot the first plane down."

Sefi shook his head. "But they are still here… raiding the rural areas around Tel Aviv… like a warning  _they will be back_." He looked dizzy and unsure, wincing as if something was buzzing in his ear.

Alfred's eyes caught Arthur's, as if he were wishing for Arthur to compliment him, and lingered too long- Arthur quickly turned his eyes to the dirt. "Sefi should… should rest."

Feeling strangely disappointed and bitter, Alfred coughed. "I'll take him back."

Arthur nodded, still avoiding eye contact with Alfred, and clapped Sefi on the shoulder with a small smile. He walked back to the hangar, where others were already trying to repair the east wall. Alfred watched him go, conflicting and strange emotions settling.

The streets were quiet. No one laughed or danced or played music, no one conversed on the sides of the road. Everyone was hiding. It was disconcerting, and Alfred could tell it made Sefi nervous and antsy, walking behind him. As they passed the cafe that now solely reminded Alfred of  _Arthur_ , Sefi murmured in his thick accent, "You are no longer happy, אמריקה."

Alfred gave him a side-long glance, shrugging. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You can fool humans, Alfred. But you cannot fool personifications."

"I'm not trying to fool anyone."

Sefi looked up to the sky, closing his eyes and stopping in the road. Alfred turned, eyebrows furrowing, when the other hummed, "You two are both so  _stubborn_."

Alfred didn't reply, and the two continued walking in silence.

—

 


	7. Hope

" _Why not… Airacobra?"_

_Alfred's nose scrunched slightly, as if he were sniffing something. "Where did you come up with that?"_

_Arthur shrugged, lips tilting upward, his breath, warm and strangely comforting, puffing against Alfred's cheek. "The Fae told me."_

" _Oh, your imaginary friends?" Alfred teased, heart still pounding rapidly for some unknown reason, as colors exploded, dimensions warped-_

Alfred watched Sefi sleep, lost in thought, eyes unfocused and staring at the immaterial, when a quiet voice shook him out of his reverie. "Jones."

He turned, eyes trailing over Arthur's figure for a brief moment- dirt smeared across his face, hair frizzy and mussed, blood that wasn't his stained across his green uniform. "Mmm?"

"Sleep in my room."

Blue eyes widened. "What?"

Arthur shifted from one foot to another, fingers playing along his sleeves. His eyes flittered from Alfred to the floor, and back again. "I'll sleep on the couch, if that's what you're worried about."

Alfred was shocked into silence and couldn't formulate an adequate response, let alone a simple 'thank you.' Arthur walked out of the room and into the bathroom, the shower head sounding a few seconds later.

 _Is he serious?_ Alfred mused.  _One second, he hates me. The next he's being nice. I don't get him at all._

"He cares for you, and this is him apologizing."

Sefi was staring at Alfred, eyes half-closed. Alfred stiffened. "…What?"

"You are blinded by his outward facade. And he is just as confused as you are."

Alfred stood, trying to contain his startled look. "I don't understand-"

"There is… a new feeling, no? You are not the only one experiencing it." Sefi turned around, back to Alfred. "Goodnight, אמריקה."

Alfred walked out silently and shut his door, pressing his back against it, facing Arthur's room.

_You are blinded…his way of apologizing...he is just as confused…new feeling…_

He slowly approached Arthur's room, slipping his shirt above his head and throwing it to the ground. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he glanced to the doorframe, where Arthur was standing. Shadows bounced across his bare chest as he stood up awkwardly. That was when Alfred took in the shorter fully: wearing a long-sleeved tan sweatshirt that was two sizes too big, black, skin-tight boxers barely showing under the length of the sweatshirt.

His heart jumped- and he instantly berated himself, more scared at  _just what he was thinking_ than anything else:

Arthur was  _absolutely_   _sexy._

_No, no, no. I don't swing that way, damn you. No way. Holy shit, he's hot- NO! Stop it!_

He ripped his eyes away from his figure and glared at the wall, trying to compose himself like the  _mature adult he obviously wasn't_. "If.. you know… you want…" Clearing his throat multiple times, Alfred decided to give up on words, and pointed to the bed like an idiot.

"I know you don't want that. I'll be fine on the couch-"

"No, I want y-" They both paused, staring at each other, Arthur's fingers dipping under the hem of his shirt and playing with it nervously.

Alfred summoned all his courage, willed his heart to calm down, and stated, "Arthur. Sleep with me."

Arthur's eyes widened, eyebrows raised, as Alfred stammered over his words. "I… I mean, not  _with_ me, but… you know, with me. I mean, in the bed. But not like that. I mean, not that you want-"

"Ok." Arthur cut him off, hand covering his own mouth. He was vainly trying not to laugh, and bit the knuckle of his finger. He tentatively walked up to the side and drew back the blanket, shooting another glance at Alfred, as if asking permission. Alfred just stared right back. He sat down on the side, still watching Alfred, and then relaxed, sliding his legs onto the bed.

Alfred felt his face redden at the sight of a stretched out Arthur beside him, and huffily turned around, face burrowing into his pillow and back to Arthur, curses repeating in his mind until he fell asleep, making sure he wasn't touching Arthur in the slightest.

—

May 18, 1948

The REAF did come back, as Sefi said they would, and each day following the first attack, they bombarded Tel Aviv. Few civilians died, and barely anyone came out of their houses. Alfred wanted to fly, but was held back. The IAF barely had any skilled fighters, let alone aircraft. If Alfred kept intercepting them in the same plane (he wouldn't use the Airacobra, because it was a low altitude fighter, and would be easily outmatched) they would realize how little the IAF really had. Arthur said that they would have to wait to attack until the several Avia aircrafts and their pilots came from Czechoslovakia.

Alfred's eyes opened, blurry sight focusing on what was in front of him- Arthur's back. He usually was up before Alfred and at Sde Dov, a cup of coffee sitting on the table in the kitchen for Alfred. It was strange that neither had been woken by an explosion. Alfred was content to just lay there, gazing at the messy blonde hair that poked out from the blanket.

It was unearthly silent- not a bird chirped outside. Alfred shifted onto his side, curling a little closer to Arthur, but not close enough to touch. He thought about going to the cafe and buying him tea.

 _You confuse me,_ Alfred thought as he watched Arthur breath slowly.  _You do nice things for me, and then you ignore me and insult me._

 _It's karma,_ another voice rang in Alfred's head.  _You did and still do the same to him._

Arthur suddenly rolled onto his back, murmuring something as his eyes barely opened. Alfred remained still, watching as Arthur rubbed his eyes and sighed out. He glanced at Alfred, flushing when he saw the younger's eyes were trained on him. "…What?"

Alfred let out a breath of amusement. "You're funny when you sleep."

Reddening, Arthur glared at him. "How I  _sleep_ shouldn't concern you." He sat up, stretching his arms above his head, arching his back. The blanket pooled into his lap, and Alfred caught himself watching a little too avidly. He hopped out of bed quickly, threw on a random shirt, and walked out the door, almost colliding into Sefi.

Before Alfred could tease Sefi about slowing down, the other personification basically shoved Alfred aside and raced past him. At the same time, the door Alfred had just walked out of opened, and Arthur barreled past him, skidding on the tile floor with his socks, cutting off Sefi and letting out a shout of triumph when he reached the bathroom first, slamming the door shut.

Sefi banged his fist against the door, growling, "לעזאזל איתך , אנגליה!"

There was a bark of laughter from inside the bathroom. "Apologies. Nothing comes between me and a shower, my friend."

Alfred almost laughed himself. "Is this what happens when I'm asleep?"

Turning from the door, Sefi sighed. "And I have yet to beat him."

—-

It was completely calm. Completely unsettling. And yet, people wandered out of the protection of their homes, onto the streets. It was the first day Sefi seemed mildly relaxed. Arthur looked slightly off, but Arthur usually looked that way, so Alfred decided that today would be different, maybe even tranquil.

The three personifications entered the cafe, sitting at a booth with hot drinks in hand. Alfred decided he didn't like the smell of tea nor the solemn silence that the other two often generated, and stated, "When do the Avias fly in?"

Arthur tapped fingers against the table, sitting across from Sefi and Alfred. "Soon. Being a very risky operation, maybe not for another week…"

Sefi took another sip of his tea. "They will be here. And then," he glanced at Alfred with a knowing look, "We can retaliate."

Alfred decided he liked playing ignorant, so long as it kept conversation. "And the city… Degania… is preparing to fight Syria?"

Closing his eyes, Sefi nodded. "But the commoners are all that  _Dganya-"_ Sefi corrected- "has. The Syrian army is well-trained. And…" He trailed off, eyes darkening. Arthur's attention seemed to suddenly be caught.

"Sefi?" He asked, "What do you see?"

"I… I do not know, אנגליה. It's dark and static… I can't…."

Arthur stood and urgently grabbed Alfred's sleeve, quietly whispering as to not arouse suspicion from the other customers, "Something's coming, Alfred. He is new to certain personification's tendencies to  _scope_ , and he's overloading."

Alfred turned and looked out the window as the others in the cafe went on with life as if nothing were wrong.  _If only you knew what I know._

_But that is what makes us strong. We hold this burden of knowledge so that the people don't have to._

Walking out the door with Arthur on his heels, Alfred looked up to the sky, expecting a plane to fly over the city, but the sky was clear blue, devoid of metal objects that could strike unbridled fear. Arthur, beside him, hissed out, "There is something- close."

"How do you know?"

Arthur kept his eyes on the sky. "I used to  _be_ this land. I might not be injured when it is attacked, but I can still feel when something is about to happen, and my scope range is greater and more developed than Sefi's."

"Then we should warn the people-"

"No. Sefi hasn't even told Ben-Gurion that he's…  _personified._ The people couldn't understand-"

Everything suddenly was ringing, was shaking, and Alfred felt himself falling uncontrollably, and it was deja vu of too many things that had happened. Vision blurred, and there was a sudden strike of fear that he would be deaf and blind.

But Arthur was suddenly in his vision, beside him, mouth moving, and Alfred focused as his ears strained to hear the muffled voice. "They just hit the central bus station down the block-"

Another deafening blow exploded, and both flinched, covering their ears as dirt and shrapnel and all other manner of objects flew up into the sky like a dust cloud, raining down. Shrieking people raced by, seeking shelter anywhere they could, and Alfred stumbled to his feet, grabbing Arthur by the arm and yanking him up.

Smoke was floating upward over the heart of the town, alarms were ringing- it was chaotic. Arthur suddenly took off toward the station, but was stopped by a sharp tug on his arm- Alfred was still holding him. " _You can't run into that!"_ His own voice sounded muffled and strange, as if he were speaking to someone across a wall.

 _"I can bloody well do what I want, and you won't stop me, Jones!"_ Arthur hissed back, but the sound faded in and out, and Alfred felt the urge to protect Arthur flood through him. But he over contemplated, his grip loosened, and Arthur was suddenly out of his grasp, racing toward the station.

Alfred took off after him, praying that the bombers had at least stopped. He rounded the corner and was met with something that would make anyone's heart drop- a destroyed building, one that was essential to Tel Aviv, one that many people used to get around, that people had probably thought they were  _safe_ in. Alarms were still blaring, smoke was still casting a dark aura to the city, people were still screaming.

Arthur was frozen in front of him, as if he couldn't believe his eyes at the destruction. Alfred stepped forward slightly, and if broken out of a trance, Arthur hastily walked forward, digging through the rubble. Heavy cement blocks and wires precariously threatened to cave in around him, downed trees were split, and could cause more than a splinter- but it was like he didn't care.

And Alfred's heart ached- to watch  _one being_  attempt to search for a sign of hope in total desolation and despair physically  _hurt._ And he didn't like the feeling.

" _Arthur. Stop it."_ Arthur didn't respond, and Alfred knew that everyone in the building was dead, and he wanted Arthur to  _stop because he didn't want to see the hope where there was none. "Stop it, do you hear me?"_ His words fell on a deaf ear- Alfred felt emotions bubbling up that he  _didn't want to feel,_ and gripped Arthur's arm, forcibly trying to pull Arthur away from his furious digging.

Arthur's eyes were bleary and watery, his face was covered in dirt and dust, and he struck at Alfred with another hand, barely missing him. " _Don't touch me!"_ He snarled. Alfred released him, taken aback at his emotive tone, and there was something  _there_ that Alfred hadn't seen in centuries, hadn't seen since his first war.

People emerged from their houses- everything was silent, just as the morning had been. Dark and silent. The air was rank with blood, death, dust. They watched the scene unfold with large eyes, faces smeared with dark, clouded grime and soot, curious and afraid and needing the unrealistic hope that Alfred didn't want but realized _everyone in Israel needed_.

And so he fell to his knees beside Arthur, who stopped for a brief moment to study Alfred, and was met with a determined expression. The people saw, and came to help, and even a bleeding, wounded Sefi was there-

_And there was hope._

—


	8. Closer

May 20, 1948

_Arthur was glaring at him. "You may not see them, but that doesn't mean they're imaginary."_

_Alfred rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. Airacobra is fine."_

_Smirking triumphantly, Arthur raised their hands on the brush to the hull, and white, bold lettering was painted onto the sliver metal-_

"The Avias are here," Sefi murmured, sitting on the couch as Alfred walked in with coffee and tea.

Alfred glanced at him, setting the tea on the counter. If the Avias and their pilots were in from Czechoslovakia, it could be a turning point of the seeming impunity the REAF had. "Then we should go to Sde Dov-"

"Arthur is still asleep." The personification was looking out the window, tired and weary. Alfred didn't reply. Sefi continued, "And the Egyptians are south of us. Their army… is marching north up the  _Gaza._ They are aiming… for Tel Aviv, according to the reconnaissance missions of the  _Haganah."_ He fell silent, as if he were closing a door between himself and Alfred.

One thing Sefi and Arthur had in common was their need of personal space. Walking to Arthur's bedroom, Alfred creaked the door open, trying his best to be quiet, and saw that blonde hair mussed across the white pillows. Alfred stepped in, shut the door behind him, and sat on the side of the bed, gazing at Arthur's sleeping form.

They had barely spoken since the day the Central Bus Station was bombed. Alfred still remembered Arthur's face, the look ingrained into his memory, one that Arthur only showed in pure, unadulterated agony- one that Alfred had only seen twice.

Now, he looked peaceful and defenseless- two things Arthur surely  _never was-_ and it was endearing. Alfred found himself smiling, gently reaching out and touching his cheek with the back of his fingers.

 _No,_ Alfred thought to himself.  _Arthur wouldn't want anyone to see him this_ …  _vulnerable. Beautiful._

And for some reason, Alfred found himself hoping he was the only one who had seen the mighty British Empire like this.

—

May 28, 1948

The Haganah was officially dissolved- transformed into the Israeli Defense Forces by Ben-Gurion. Hopefully, it would bring more organization to the new country's soldiers.

Most had attended the meeting, except Alfred. Sefi, even though Arthur had urged him to participate, sided with Alfred, and refused to give reasons as to why he didn't want to attend.

So they walked to Sde Dov, Alfred constantly looking up at the sky out of paranoia. Sefi glanced at him. "What are you looking for?"

"Enemies," Alfred replied simply.

Sefi paused, and then murmured, "I do not want to fight them."

Taken aback, Alfred stared at him. "W...what? Why not? You hate them. They hate you. Right?"

"My mind tells me to hate, but my heart commands me to love. Just because we believe differently does not mean I hate them."

"But..." Alfred couldn't understand. "They've killed hundreds of you."

"And we've killed thousands of them!" Sefi's eyes were filled with some sort of strange emotion. "What I believe in, my religion- it calls for me to love. Love above all things- because  _pure_   _love_ for one another can do no wrong."

Stunned into silence, Alfred felt something stir in his own soul.  _I thought I knew...but I don't even know what love is. And yet, this newborn country has so much more wisdom than I ever will._

The rest of the walk was carried in complete silence. When the two arrived at Sde Dov, Sefi walked immediately into the main building without glancing back. Alfred deviated from the main building, deciding to walk through the newly repaired hangar at Sde Dov, stopping by his Airacobra, which hadn't seen action since late March. He ran his fingers over the hull, over the white painted words which were once vibrant, and froze.

_Their hands connected on the brush, Arthur steadily moved the bristles up and down, until they finished, and Arthur was right there, breath mixing with Alfred's, and they gazed at each other. Alfred leaned in slowly, bumped his forehead against Arthur's, convincing himself he was just trying to convey his thanks and that this wasn't a different, warm feeling-_

_And Francis came in, and took Arthur away, with words concerning war and death, and Alfred followed, and he didn't see Arthur again for a long time… and he always would wonder what had happened between the two that day. Because that day, Alfred felt something different toward Arthur, and they had never spoken kind words to each other after the war for his independence, until that day-_

Alfred felt bile rising in his throat, running fingers through his hair. How one memory from 6 years ago could haunt him today was strange and exasperating. And Sefi's words still rang in his head.

_Love is what I am called to do. But... this... couldn't be..._

_I can't be in love with Arthur._

"You know, that plane of yours is going to need an Israeli star painted on it."

He turned, and Arthur was there, just like how he had been when Alfred had first needed help painting. Alfred felt himself smiling, and murmured, "I'm not very good at paintin', Arthur."

But Arthur didn't look taken aback, didn't look surprised, didn't show that he remembered. A blank expression was all he carried. Alfred's smile faded, withered. He turned to leave, when Arthur murmured, "You did good, Alfred."

"Pardon?" Alfred turned, eyebrows raised.

Arthur didn't look at him, his face suddenly a few shades scarlet, arms crossed against his chest. "Shooting down that fighter aircraft a week ago. You…. you did…" he trailed off, as if hoping Alfred would fill in the blank.

"Of course I did!" Alfred was grinning again. He prayed Arthur couldn't hear his heart thumping as rapidly as it was, couldn't see the color of his face, because confidence was his facade, and he was only a good actor when Arthur was anywhere but near him.

But Arthur just scowled. "Shut up, you twat, and paint that star bloody quickly. You're going to need it."

Alfred's eyes widened. "What?"

Arthur walked slightly closer. "What do you think? You're just going to be borrowing my plane for the next year? I don't think so, Jones." He paused, glanced at Alfred's plane. "Sefi told you that the Egyptians were advancing, yes?"

Alfred nodded, and Arthur continued. "You and I are going to counter them. Tomorrow."

"Just us?" Alfred tried not to shout. "Against that entire army?"

"Four others will be with us, all excellent pilots. It's more of a scare tactic. They don't know how many planes we have." Arthur's hand was trailing over the Airacobra, and when he touched the faded white lettering, he grew silent. Alfred watched him, and their eyes met- Arthur quickly dropped his eyes to his feet.

Sefi's words again rang in Alfred's memory.

_I can't be in love with Arthur._

"I..." Alfred began awkwardly. Arthur glanced up, blonde bangs falling into his eyes. "Sefi... he said... strange things today."

Arthur tilted his head. "Strange... good? Or.. strange bad?"

"He said he didn't want to fight. I asked him why. And he said that he was called to love." Alfred paused. "Do you know what that means?"

To his surprise, Arthur laughed bitterly, and glanced away. "How should I know what love is, Alfred?"

"I.. just thought-"

"He was probably referring to platonic love," Arthur muttered. His eyes were dark, he wouldn't look at Alfred.

Alfred suddenly felt irritated, exasperated at this confusing person that he couldn't help but yearn for, and gripped Arthur's arm. Arthur's eyes shot wide open, and he instinctively tried to pull away, but Alfred leaned in close, and his voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. " _Why do you do this?"_

 _"I don't do anything,"_ Arthur hissed back, trying not to look into Alfred's eyes. Alfred grabbed him by the chin, and their eyes met.

" _You act as if I'm a disease. You won't look at me, you won't talk to me-"_ Alfred bit the inside of his cheek. " _And then, out of the blue, you'll do something nice, and confuse me."_

Arthur looked ready to explode. " _I can't believe you would have the gaul to say that, you asshat. You're the confusing one. One day, you're making advances on me, and the next, we don't speak-"_ He broke off and blushed when he realized what had slipped out of his mouth.

Alfred's mouth dropped. " _Advances? When have I_ ever  _made-"_

_"You bloody caressed my cheek this morning! And then you wouldn't stop gawking at me the past nights-"_

_"I do not gawk!"_ Alfred was reddening.

Both of their voices were rising, as Arthur continued, "And you touched your forehead to mine the last time we saw each other in that bloody war!"

They stared at each other, voices gone. Alfred suddenly became aware of how drastic their height difference was, how green Arthur's eyes were, how smooth his skin looked-

" _You're gawking,"_ Arthur whispered, but neither of them really cared.

 _Well, there's no used in denying it._ Alfred tried to breathe steadily, hoping it would calm his heart. "Does that bother you?"

Arthur's breath was lilting against his cheeks. "...No."

Suddenly, there was a loud shout. "Kirkland! We need to go over the debrief before tomorrow!"

The two jumped away from each other, and Arthur cleared his throat. "Of course. I'm coming." He glanced at Alfred for a moment, and stammered, "You... should come too, yes?"

"Yeah." Alfred followed him out of the hangar, thoughts clouded and confused.

_What just happened?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sefi is some sort of complicated Christian- Jew, but not the stereotype everyone thinks when a person says "Christian" or "Jew." He is just a pure cinnamon roll, I guess... he believes love is the greatest commandment in his religion, and even though his duty as a personification is to destroy and conquer his enemies, he feels the tug of his heart to love. 
> 
> Alfred isn't religious. Arthur may claim he is Protestant, but he isn't very religious, either.
> 
> I think both Alfred and Arthur are very confused and afraid concerning "love". The sexual attraction is most definitely there, but Arthur fears being in love with Alfred (he's in denial), because he thinks it will harm him just like it always does (Rev. War). Alfred knows he is in love with Arthur, but he fears rejection.
> 
> No disrespect was directed toward anyone or their religion in this chapter (or the following chapters).


	9. Meet The Crew

May 29, 1948

" _Shit!"_  Alfred cursed. Setting down his coffee, he tried coating his burnt tongue on the roof of his mouth.

The four pilots that would be flying with Alfred were sitting with him. Lou Lenart was laughing at him, rivaling Alfred's obnoxious laugh- Lou was the only American aside from Alfred. Alfred liked him. He adored coffee almost as much as Alfred did.

Modi Alon and Ezer Weizmann were Israeli. Modi was extremely outgoing and quite talkative: Ezer was the exact opposite, but he was still good-natured.

Eddie Cohen was from South Africa. He had an accent similar to Arthur, but a personality like Modi's.

He was rolling his eyes at Alfred, and sighed, "How'd we get stuck with this guy?"

Ezer voiced his agreement, while Lou jumped to Alfred's defense. "'Oi, lay off the Americans. We ain't never done nothing to hurt you, eh?"

"Was that a _triple_ negative?" Modi smirked. "Lou, your  _being_ hurts me." He elbowed Ezer, who took a sip of his drink.

Alfred scoffed and was about to reply when the door opened, the bell jingling. Arthur walked in, running fingers through his hair, wearing his uniform, and whatever Alfred was going to say vanished into thin air. The other four glanced at what Alfred was looking at, and all of them watched as Arthur walked by their table to pay for his tea.

Modi started chuckling. "Alfred, you sneaky bastard."

"What?" Alfred asked innocently.

Lou threw an arm around Alfred and laughed obnoxiously. "That is one  _fine_  piece of British a-"

"Excuse me,  _gentleman_." Arthur was standing at the front of the table, glaring at Lou, his voice caustic. "It's time to go."

"But we're not attacking the Egyptian army until 18:00," Alfred remarked.

Arthur shrugged. "I don't care if you get left behind." He walked out, tea in hand, the five watching him go. Eddie was snorting with laughter.

"He's feisty, isn't he, Alfred?"

Lou clapped Alfred's shoulder. "Is he like that in bed, tiger?"

Alfred felt himself grow red, and he shoved Lou. Modi's face was buried on the table, whole body shaking with glee. Alfred hissed, "Shut up," and stood, walking out of the cafe, the four on his heels the entire time.

—

The Egyptian army was advancing faster- the time to fly was bumped up to sooner. Only 250 Israeli men stood between the thousands of Egyptians and Tel Aviv, according to Lou. Now that the Avias had been constructed and arrived with four pilots that could hold their own, Israel could attack- although it be a messy, unorganized air attack, with Israel essentially flying 4 planes that were ironically modeled after the German Messerschmitt. Alfred was sitting in his plane, fiddling with his aviator's hat, when a hand touched his arm. He turned and saw Sefi, and asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to wish you good luck." He was smiling, and held out something in his palm. "And to give you this."

Alfred took the object, studying it closely. "Dog tags?"

Sefi shrugged. "I do not believe in superstition. But you could take it as a...  _good luck charm,_ of sorts. It is my way of thanking you. For helping me."

"What do you mean?"

"You have helped me in more ways than one, אמריקה. Not just the war- but who  _I_ am. Not the personification." He touched Alfred's chest, right above his heart. "But the human side of me."

 _This guy is always surprising me._ "Thank you," Alfred murmured, smiling. He slipped the necklace over his head, the cool metal touching his chest- the inscription had been in Hebrew. "What did it say?"

" אמריקה."

Alfred tilted his head. "You say that all the time. What does it mean?"

Sefi held a finger to his own lips and smiled. "That is for you to find out."

A familiar, overbearing voice sounded. "Are we ready, boys?" Lou practically jumped out of nowhere. "It's time to shoot down some Egyptian ass!"

Sefi scowled. "Are all Americans so offensive and narcissistic?"

Laughing, Alfred shook his head. "He's really a nice guy, I swear."

Saying farewell, Sefi walked out of the hangar. Alfred closed the roof of the cockpit and slipped on his goggles as the radio started to transmit static. Dan Tolkovsky, the IAF operation officer, spoke through the radio, " _Operation Pleshet is go. Clear for take-off."_

The radios were linked, and Lou's ridiculous laugh sounded. Arthur snapped, " _Lou, I'll tell Tolkovsky to withhold you from anymore missions if you do that bloody one more time."_

 _"_ _That would be wonderful,"_ Ezer snorted.

It was strange, being in his Airacobra after so long- it was like reading a book after years. As they took off, Alfred felt himself growing suddenly, forebodingly nervous. The silence as they flew through the air was unanimous, like a vigil that was supposed to be held before an attack.

Static crackled from the radio- Lou's voice faded in. "I'm strafing from the north. Modi and Arthur are south, Ezer's west. Eddie, you and Alfred take the east side. Copy?"

The affirmative voices sounded through the radio as they slowly neared Isdud, where the Egyptians were moving in. Eventually, Alfred veered off with Eddie, and the two wrapped around northeast. The massive line of Egyptian vehicles and men came into sight, and Alfred heard Eddie remark, "You know, sometimes, I wonder why I do this, yeah?"

Alfred laughed. "When I see you after this, I'll buy you coffee. Will that bribe you to stay?"

"Nah." Alfred could almost hear the smile in his voice. "Nothing could stop me from doing this. My mother always said I was too attracted to risking my life."

A tinge of pain hit Alfred's heart. Being essentially immortal, he forgot the difference between himself and most- how easy it was for a human to die- and he always forgot their faithful, illogical courage.

No more words were exchanged between the two as a loud, high-pitched noise sounded, followed by an ear-splitting explosion- Lou had released his first bomb at the head of the Egyptian line. Alfred started into a dive, growing closer to the line of enemies, who looked taken off guard and frazzled already. Jamming the trigger with his thumb, Alfred released skilled gunfire at the biggest Egyptian tank he saw- and then pulled up at the last second as the tank exploded. He then circled up and around, just in time to see a certain Spitfire shooting through the sky, reaching speeds Alfred surely couldn't, and unleashed a bombardment of 20mm cannon fire on the unsuspecting army below.

Alfred let out a whoop as Arthur shot up and around, circling the Airacobra, as if saying,  _Let's see you do better._

But just as Alfred felt a high, Ezer shouted over the radio, " _The 20mm cannons_ _clogged up. I can't fire through them."_

 _"Switch to machine gun fire,"_ Arthur's voice sounded.

As Alfred dove to release his second round, shots were fired back at him- he yanked the Airacobra hard to the right, and entered into a spin. " _Assholes!_   _They're firing back!"_

 _"That's usually what happens when you attack an army,"_ Arthur remarked over the radio.

Lou was laughing. " _No need to be a sarcastic shit, Arthur."_

 _"Alfred's right,"_ Modi stated. " _They're unleashing full anti-aircraft measures- Shit!"_ There was a loud bang, hissing static, and Modi grunted, as if pulling himself out of a dive.

" _I have to land,"_ Modi growled. " _I just got hit."_

" _You can't land beside an army,"_ Ezer's voice overlapped with Modi's, almost protectively.

Lou's voice suddenly broke in. " _My cockpit was hit after my third strafe run. I'm landing at Ekron, yeah?"_

Ekron airbase would be the ideal landing spot- it was close and safe. Modi shouted, " _Right behind you, Lenart."_

" _Where's Eddie?"_ Alfred suddenly asked.

He was met with silence, and then Lou hissed, " _He was supposed to attack with you-"_

_"I see him."_

Alfred tensed at Arthur's tone of voice, and spoke through the radio, " _Where?"_

_"His plane is burning. It looks like he's headed toward Hatzor Airbase. Shall I follow him?"_

_"Affirmative,"_ Lou quickly replied. Alfred watched the Spitfire shoot through the sky past him, and caught sight of the burning plane. His heart dropped in his chest- the words exchanged between the two just an hour ago replayed like a cruel taunt in his head. " _I'm going with him."_

_"Wait, Alfred-"_

He'd already made his decision, and shot after Arthur.

—


	10. Won and Lost

" _He won't reply through the radio. His plane must have malfunctioned."_

The Airacobra followed right behind the Spitfire, and Alfred spoke, " _Did they not test the planes before flying them_?!"

Arthur's voice was static and choppy. " _No. They didn't."_

_"Why?!"_

_"I only act like I know everything, Jones."_ Alfred's reply was cut off when Arthur quickly pointed out, " _Cohen's plane is spiraling out of control. Do you see it_?"

Alfred shifted his plane to the right of the Spitfire and spotted a small object in the distance. " _Yes."_ Eddie's plane was spinning at a steep slope toward the ground- Alfred felt like he was going to throw up. " _Arthur, we need to land… and help him."_

_"There's no way a person could survi-"_

_"Please, Arthur,"_ Alfred pleaded. He found himself clinging to that one thread of unrealistic hope that he never wanted to hang from. Arthur was silent for a long moment.

_"Quickly."_

Inhaling sharply, Alfred came to land roughly in a tall field of wheat, Arthur right behind him. Throwing off his goggles, he opened the side of the cockpit, hopped out, and raced toward the column of smoke rising into the sky. There was a loud hissing noise, creaking of metal, and as Alfred finally cleared the field, he saw the plane- a burning, destroyed shell of something that was.

Both were silent as Alfred walked toward the cockpit, a warped, broken object, glass shattered across the dirt and across the body inside. Without hesitation, Alfred ripped the metal separating him from Eddie, and roughly dragged him out of the twisted mess.

Laying him aways from the burning plane, he knelt over Eddie's body, and closed his eyes, wincing at the bleak, open-eyed stare the dead man gave, blood streaking down his forehead.

_My mother always said I was too attracted to risking my life._

Alfred couldn't count the myriad of times he'd seen death, a body mangled and disfigured, in front of him. He'd never get used to it, to lifeless eyes staring back at him, haunting him. Turning away from the sight, he faced Arthur, who was also staring at Eddie Cohen, bottom lip in between his teeth.

"I always forget, Arthur," Alfred murmured. "How fragile a life is."

Arthur looked up toward the sky, as if clearing his head. "The natural consequence of immortality." Their eyes met, and Arthur continued, "I've not grown used to it, Alfred." His green eyes were shimmering. "How courageous they are."

Alfred sucked in a sharp breath. "I haven't either."

—

They reunited with Lou, Modi, and Ezer at Ekron airbase, where the news was broke. Lou broke down sobbing, Modi holding him- it was the first time Alfred had experienced the American showing an emotion other than obnoxiously cheerful. It was heartbreaking, and Alfred had to walk out of the room.

It was silent the entire flight back to Sde Dov. No one spoke through the radio. When they landed, there were cheers- people came to hug them, to celebrate, but  _it was wrong, and it wouldn't be right without Eddie._

The report they received from Tolkovsky was positive. The psychological impact had been profound- the Egyptians were stopped in their tracks. The damage had been minimal, but apparently, according to an intercepted Egyptian radio message, the army had taken it as a warning for something bigger coming their way, and were dispersing. Simply the threatening appearance of the IAF had convinced them to stop.

The five were called in by Tolkovsky to be debriefed. Alfred's fingers drummed against the desk, thoughts wondering elsewhere, to Pearl Harbor, to World War II, to the face of Eddie, to Arthur, to Lou and Modi and Ezer, and then to Sefi.

"Alfred."

Looking up at Tolkovsky, who looked slightly sympathetic, he asked, "What?"

"Why did you follow Kirkland without Lenart's permission?"

The question hung over silence. The others glanced at him. Alfred straightened in his seat, and sighed, "I'd made a promise to Cohen."

More silence. Lou stiffened in the corner of his eye, and Arthur bit his lip. Tolkovsky moved on, his voice a dull, echoing monotone for another hour. When he finally finished the mandatory questioning, he turned to the door, but instead of leaving, he called, "Come on in, Ruby."

Lou stood up suddenly at those words- Modi looked equally excited. The door opened, and in walked a man that Alfred instantly picked up on as American. Lou threw an arm around him, and said, "Good to see you, Milt."

"This is Milton Rubenfield, one of the only pilots that can fly the Avia," Tolkovsky introduced.

Lou was laughing- it was almost a relieving sound. "Now we've got three Americans. Suck on that, Modi."

Modi scowled. Milton retorted playfully, " _Israeli-_ American."

"Since Rubenfield had to sit out last mission, he'll be joining you tomorrow. Modi and Lou will sit this one out," Tokovsky started. Modi looked indifferent, and Lou frowned. "We only have 2 Avias that are airworthy, since Modi's ground looped when he tried to land and is out of commission."

"You can't call that plane airworthy," Ezer muttered. "The performance defects are many. It's stressful on the pilot: nerve-wrecking just climbing into one."

"It's all we have. And, I forgot to mention- you are officially the 101 Squadron- the very first squadron of the IAF." Tolkovsky cleared his throat, letting the gravity of that information sink in. "Now, we need to keep up pressure on the Arab forces. Weizmann will be in charge of the mission. Kirkland will be leader in the air. The four of you will attack the Jordanians' position around Tulkarm on the eastern front- you leave at 05:30. Understood?"

They were all released from Sde Dov. On the steps, Modi looked up to the night sky, catching Alfred's attention.

"What are you doing?"

Modi glanced at Alfred and smiled. "Looking for Eddie."

Alfred's brow scrunched. "But he's dead, Modi."

"That is so. And now, there is a new sky in the star. Do you see it?"

"I don't study astrology," Alfred murmured, but looked where Modi was pointing anyway. "How do you know it's new?"

He reached out and touched Alfred's chest, above his heart. "I cannot explain. But every new star is a life. You will understand one day." He hopped down the steps, waving back at Alfred. "Goodnight, אמריקה ."

 _Isn't that what Sefi always says?_ But before Alfred could ask Modi what that meant, Arthur was beside him, looking up at him with tired eyes. They took off toward their house in comfortable silence- which was strange to Alfred, because the silence between them was often the opposite.

Arthur was first to break the silence. "I'm going to sleep like a baby tonight."

Alfred glanced at him, amused. "Yeah?"

"Mmm." Arthur then narrowed his eyes playfully. "Oi, I had a question for you. This morning, in the cafe- why was Lou spouting bollocks about my ass?"

Flushing, Alfred looked anywhere but at Arthur, and muttered, "It was just good-for-nothing teasing."

Arthur let out a soft laugh. "Ah. Well, the color of your face told otherwise." He smirked. "You looked like a bonafide Spanish tomato in that cafe."

Shoving his shoulder good-naturedly, Alfred muttered, "Asshole."

Opening the door, Alfred walked into the dark house.  _Sefi must be asleep,_ he mouthed to Arthur, who nodded. They tiptoed into their room and shut the door- Arthur immediately fell onto the bed on his stomach, groaning. Alfred covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing at the sight. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it to the ground haphazardly, climbing onto the bed and laying beside Arthur, who turned his head to face the other with an exhausted look.

His green eyes were drawn to the metal dog tags, and reached out to take them in his hand. Alfred tried not to shiver when Arthur's fingertips brushed his chest, and he felt his heart speed up when Arthur scooted closer, propping himself up on his elbow. "Where did you get this?"

"Sefi." He paused, watching Arthur run his small fingers over the inscription. On an impulse, he reached out and touched Arthur's hand- it was strangely soft and smooth. Their eyes met, and they were drifting toward each other, almost naturally. Arthur dropped the tags, threading his fingers through Alfred's, who whispered, " _Arthur..."_

" _What?"_ Arthur whispered back, eyes half-lidded.

" _You said you didn't mind when I gawk, yeah?"_

Arthur nodded slowly, his other hand curled up beside his own face on the pillow. He looked so... Alfred didn't even have words to describe it, nor the feeling that welled up in his chest.

He leaned in, and pressed his lips against the bridge of Arthur's nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honhonhon! XD I hope I'm not rushing the romance. What do you all think?  
> In memory of Eddie Cohen: Killed in Action on May 29, 1948.


	11. Shoreline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. If you kinda, sorta like this story, and/or are interested in the beginning of the IAF, you should watch the documentary "Above and Beyond." It's absolutely amazing, and the pilots and their stories that are in my fanfiction are REAL. However, there are many spoilers, so watch at your own risk. I highly recommend watching it, but that's just me. I'm a history nerd. XD

May 30, 1948

Fingers were prodding his shoulders. Cracking an eye open, he saw the shadowed face of Arthur beside him, looking half awake himself. The sun hadn't even peeked through the curtains.

"Wake up," Arthur murmured, his green eyes closing after a heavy blink. He wasn't very convincing.

Alfred groaned a reply, something along the lines of 'in a moment,' and felt Arthur's legs kicking against his.

"We'll be late."

Suddenly, everything that had happened the day before came crashing into Alfred's memory- Sefi, Eddie, Lou, Milton, Modi,  _Arthur._

Alfred felt like shrieking, a giddy feeling coming over him when he remembered  _he had kissed Arthur's nose and Arthur hadn't pulled away-_

An airy laugh made his eyes fly open. Arthur was biting the pad of his thumb, trying to contain his grin. "You're making faces."

Flushing, Alfred sat up, rubbing his eyes and inwardly berating himself:  _You're acting like a ditzy high-schooler. You need to calm down. You are a brilliant mathematician who does not fall prey to... whatever this feeling is._ "It's too early." He made a half-hearted attempt to stand, and instantly fell back onto the bed. "Is the cafe even open?"

Arthur sat up, unbuttoning the white shirt that he had worn the day before and hadn't bothered to take off last night. Alfred caught himself staring as the shirt was fully opened and Arthur's smooth skin contrasted the pale white framing his shoulders.  _It's like he_  knows _he's sexy._ Studying the ceiling intently, Alfred attempted to steady his breathing as Arthur murmured, "It is."

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred watched as Arthur's shirt pooled off of his shoulders and arms onto the pillow behind him. All attempts to retain his dignity were thrown out the window as Alfred briskly hobbled out of the bed and sprinted toward the bathroom, red as the tomato he had been compared to last night.

_Damn you, Arthur Kirkland. Fine. You wanna flirt with me? It's on._

—

Tolkovsky was watching Alfred like a hawk. "That coffee does not come with you."

Groaning, Alfred threw his head back. "But it'll get  _cold!"_

Eventually, the cup was wrestled from Alfred's grip, and he hopped into the Airacobra, grumbling curses. There was a knock on the side of the cockpit- Modi was grinning at him and mouthed,  _good luck!_  Giving him a thumbs-up, Modi raced out of the hangar, and smiling, Alfred strapped his goggles on. Static voices reported over the radio.

_"This is Red 1. All clear."_

_"Red 2 is clear."_

_"Red 3 clear."_

Alfred drummed his fingers on the radio for dramatic effect, and then reported, " _Red 4 is clear as mud."_

 _"You are clear for take-off."_ Tolkovsky's tone indicated he was most definitely grimacing at Alfred's oxymoron.

Take-off was smooth- once they were in the air, Alfred came up to Arthur's left wing and glanced at him through the windows of the cockpit. Of course, Arthur stubbornly wouldn't look back. Everything seemed so much more organized than the last flight. Squadron 101 was  _actually_ a real, organized group of pilots. Alfred wasn't sure if he liked it.

The radio crackled, and Arthur's voice washed over. "Red 3 to Red 2. What direction are you coming from?"

Milton replied, "East to southwest. Over."

"Copy that. Red 4 and I will take over the east."

Alfred felt his stomach growl. "Red 4 needs coffee."

Milton laughed. Ezer snapped, "You're just as bad as Lou."

Veering off east with the Spitfire at his side, Alfred glanced down. Despite poor visibility, he slowly eased the Airacobra to 400 feet, and spotted large buildings. Before he could even ask, Arthur commanded, "Open fire."

"Yes  _sir."_ Shots rang out as Alfred dove, hitting a few tanks and buildings that looked important. He jerked up, almost level with Arthur again, giving a thumbs up and a cocky smile. Arthur, in return, gave him the finger.

Circling northeast, the two aircraft passed over Israel into enemy lines, where they surely would be fired at. Alfred muttered over the radio, "You're the one in charge. What are we hitting?"

"Strafing Tulkarm. You strike east, I strike south. We'll rendezvous at 06:30. Copy?"

"Your wish is my command,  _baby_."

He heard Arthur splutter an indignant, nonsensical reply, and smirked.  _Don't like the taste of your own medicine, Kirkland?_  Deviating the Airacobra east, Alfred tightened his grip on the throttle, breathed out, and started into a steep dive. He grunted, the forces acting on him pulling at his face, a sharp, uncomfortable feeling spiraling in his gut. " _Shit!"_

He jammed the fire-button a little too harshly, and pulled up with all the force he possessed in his arm muscles. There was a loud, satisfying blast that made the uncomfortable feelings of G-forces all worth it. Alfred prepared to make another run, when Milton Rubenfeld's urgent voice streamed over his radio.

" _This is Red 2. Requesting backup."_

Without hesitation, Alfred replied, "Copy that. What's your position?"

Milton relayed the coordinates, and Alfred pulled southwest, hoping Arthur would be ok without him. He hadn't protested over the radio, so Alfred assumed he was cleared.  _Of course he'll be ok. He's an incredible pilot. Wait- what the hell am I saying?_

Whatever he was thinking was interrupted by Rubenfeld. "Good to see you, Alfred. See those 4 tanks under us?"

Glancing down through the fog, Alfred could barely make out the shape, but did spot them. "Yeah."

"They're feisty. Shooting back and all."

"Roger that. You fire first, I'll follow, and then we'll loop."

Milton agreed and took off. Alfred followed, shots ringing out rapid-fire as he neared the tanks. Sure enough, they shot back, and suddenly, Milton's aircraft shot up into the sky, and he cursed, " _Shit! Just got hit."_ The Avia was out of control, flipping up on its belly, before Milton managed to take control of it- but his left wing was crumpled, and smoking terribly.

And while watching, Alfred heard a loud  _CRACK!_

 _"_ Oh,  _freaking hell,"_ he shouted, jerking the Airacobra up in the clouds. "I'm leaking gas, Milt." The alarms started screeching in the cockpit, and Alfred felt himself panic, fingers shaking with adrenaline.

"I've only got a few minutes. No place to land."

_Think. We need to eject, but where?_

_"_ The Mediterranean," Alfred hissed. "We gotta bail out over the sea."

There was a brief pause, and Alfred had a split second to realize that this decision meant that he would be losing his plane.

"Copy that."

There was no way around it. The sea came into view- mathematical figures flew through Alfred's head.  _Ah, shit. We're at least 1200 feet up. I'll have at least something broken... But Milt will have some serious injuries._

It was then Alfred realized that he was terrified of free-falling, and breathed out sharply. Sometimes, the fact that he was immortal didn't ease the irrational fears that sprung up.

He strapped his parachute on, maneuvered the Airacobra on its side, and jettisoned the side door, falling out like a ragdoll. It was one of the most petrifying experiences Alfred had ever endured: he couldn't tell up from down, left from right, he couldn't hear, he couldn't breath-

His parachute shot out, steading him and slowing his rate of fall, and Alfred felt like he was going to puke.  _Holy hell,_ his mind repeated. The water was nearing rapidly, and Alfred panicked, because he was going too fast.

He tried to maneuver his body around so that he wouldn't suffer a broken leg- that would be devastating. All at once, he slammed into the water, the impact jostling his body and making him scream out, merely a muffled sound in the water. Everything was blurry and dark, and he felt himself sinking, slipping from conscience, before there was another slap of a body falling into water, and Alfred was jolted from his morbid reverie, eyes snapping open, instantly stung by the water. Lungs screaming for air, he pumped his arms, climbing for the surface, and gasped for air once he broke through.

He wildly looked around, searching for Milton, his body shrieking in protest as he kicked his legs, keeping himself afloat. There was a shooting, burning pain in his ribcage- he most definitely had broken ribs.

Suddenly, Milton's head shot up out of the water, wheezing in oxygen, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth. Alfred shouted,  _"Milt!"_ and swam over to him, helping him steady himself. Red hair plastered to his face, Milton coughed out water, slumping into Alfred's grasp. He was a deadweight- both started sinking.

Alfred screeched in frustration and fear, the sound muted under the pressure of the water. Struggling, he pulled them both up for air momentarily, and then sunk, before adrenaline kicked in, and Milton pulled away from Alfred, both gasping for air as they broke the surface.

"Are you ok?" Milton shouted, his voice hoarse.

Alfred let out a shaky laugh. "If you're fine, I'm fine."

"The shoreline- do you see it?" Milton pointed east- sure enough, it wasn't far. "We can make it, Alfred."

"We can make it," Alfred repeated, breathing heavily.

Both started swimming as fast as their injuries and adrenaline could allow, and as soon as Alfred felt relief when they were able to stand, waist-deep in water, that relief was torn apart- there were people on the shoreline, all armed with guns.

" _Shit!_ " Alfred cried out, practically tackling Milton under the water as the first shot rang out, too close for comfort. They surfaced, and another shot rang out, barely grazing Alfred's ear. "Why the hell are they shooting at us? We're Israeli!"

Milton was choking on water, but managed to reply choppily, "They don't know. Barely anyone outside of Tel Aviv know about the IAF, and we don't speak Hebrew-" Bullets fired past them, and both hid underwater for as long as they could.

Breaking the surface, Milton continued in a panicked, short breath, "They think we're Arab pilots, Alfred."

"What's a Hebrew word? I don't know any Hebrew, damn it!"

Suddenly, Milton stood up, raising his arms in the air, and screamed out, "S-SHABBOS! Uhh...GEFILTE FISH! SHABBOS!"

Alfred would have laughed at the gibberish if it weren't for their situation, and decided to join in, because whatever Milton was shouting, it was working- the commoners were no longer shooting at them. Standing up next to the other pilot, he swung his arms around and yelled, "GEFILTE FISH! GEFILTE FISH!"

They probably looked like idiots, waving their arms and screaming nonsense at the top of their lungs, but the point came across- they were innocent, english-speaking Israeli fighters. The people on the shore put down their guns, and both Milton and Alfred shouted in triumph, hugging each other, Alfred swinging the human back and forth with relief.

Both were reminded of their injuries at the same time, and Milton slumped forward onto Alfred, groaning, "Damn, my chest is on fire." Leaning on the personification, the two made their way to the shore. The commoners took Milton from Alfred, and Alfred immediately fell on his back on the sand, breathing out, looking up at the sky as the water lapped at his feet.

_We are two lucky asses._


	12. Clarity

May 31, 1948

The faint tone of a humming voice washed through Alfred's mind, soothing and reminding him of his past. He shifted and didn't bother to open his eyes, content to be lulled by the familiar melody. That is, until stinging pain shot through his chest, and his head started to throb. Groaning, he cracked his eyes open, everything blurred out by the bright sun except for the face of Arthur, sitting on his left. His eyes were half-lidded, staring out the window, humming songs that Alfred thought he would never hear again.

_I must be dreaming._

Arthur's head turned, the songs stopped, and his green eyes brightened, locking with his. "This is very much real, Alfred."

_Did I say that out loud?_ Alfred mused, hand clutching at his temples. "Where… are we?"

"A hospital. Milton's down the hall in the next room." At Alfred's confused look, Arthur continued, "You passed out on the beach, according to the moshavniks. They took you and Milton to this hospital in Netanya."

"Mosha-what?"

"Moshavniks. Self-sustaining farmers in Israel- the ones you ran into on the shore." Arthur's lips quirked, and there was silence.

Alfred watched him intently, and murmured, "Those songs. I haven't heard them in awhile, Arthur."

He stiffened and flushed, staring out the window intently. "I was just bored. It was to keep myself awake." Arthur gave him a fleeting sideways glance, and his voice lowered. "I've been here since yesterday."

_Yesterday?_ "I've been sleeping since yesterday?"

Arthur nodded, quiet and unmoving. Alfred felt his heart swell suddenly at Arthur's words, murmuring, "You didn't have to come."

He shrugged, and then smirked, their eyes locking. "Gefilte fish? Is that the best you could come up with?"

Alfred laughed, closing his eyes as he relaxed on the hospital bed. "It was Milton's idea."

Softly chuckling with amusement, Arthur rested his arm atop the bed, accidentally brushing Alfred's hand. Before he could jerk away, Alfred reached out and managed to grab his fingers.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, and Alfred dropped Arthur's hand with a start as Lou shouted, "Alfred!" Modi was right behind him, and the two skidded to a halt at his bedside. "You're a lucky bastard, only getting away with cracked ribs," Lou laughed overbearingly.

"I'm sorry about your plane, Alfred," Modi murmured sympathetically. Alfred was confused. _W_ _hat happened to my plane?_ At his bewildered look, Modi glanced at Arthur and Lou. "Does... he not remember?"

Arthur clicked his tongue. "You bailed out of your plane, Jones, after getting hit by a 20mm right in your fuel tank. The Airacobra crashed into the Mediterranean Sea."

Alfred hesitated, eyes clouded. "It's... gone?"

Modi winced. "What do you remember of yesterday?"

"Milt and I were strafing tanks. And then... we were screaming at the moshav...mosha..."

"Moshavniks," Arthur supplied.

"Yeah. They thought we were Arabs, and started to shoot at us. But Milton knew some Hebrew terms. And they helped us to shore," Alfred finished, eyes unfocused, staring off at nowhere. "But now that you mention jettisoning, I can picture it... I can piece it together in my mind."

Modi and Lou took Alfred's blank stare as their time to leave- the long ride back to Sde Dov. They said something of a drinking party, once Alfred and Milton were released from the hospital. As they left, closing the door, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, sighing.

"Arthur."

Glancing at him with a soft look, Arthur tilted his head.

"I remember having an irrational feeling that I was gonna' die." Alfred gulped, trying not to meet Arthur's quizzical eyes. "Have you..." he trailed off, immediately regretting admitting such words.

"Yes." Their eyes met, and Arthur continued, just as flustered as Alfred looked, "I...I've felt that many times."

Alfred closed his eyes and bit his lip, trying to change the subject. "When do I get released?"

"Today, actually. In the afternoon," Arthur responded, more than willing to switch topics.

"And what happened to Milt?"

"Three broken ribs, injury in the groin, and profuse lacerations. But, he'll be fine." After a moment of hesitation, he glanced at Alfred, looking almost embarrassed as he murmured, "I'm sorry about your plane, Jones."

They fell into silence. Arthur stared out the window, lost in thought- oblivious to the fact that Alfred was gazing at him. This strange feeling came over Alfred- not mere attraction, but something more, something he couldn't identify.

—

Head still aching like hell, Alfred collapsed face down on his and Arthur's bed, groaning into the pillow at the soreness of his ribs.

"You do not look good," Sefi commented in his thick accent, leaning in the doorway.

It had been awhile since Alfred had seen Sefi. Turning onto his back, Alfred threw an arm over his head, muttering, "You go jettison from a plane and see what happens."

"At least you are a personification. You'll heal fast."

Another accented voice broke in. "He has the lowest pain tolerance of anyone I've seen." Arthur dodged the pillow thrown at him, and continued with a smirk, "We're going to the cafe to celebrate- you should come." As if attempting not to seem too desperate, he added, "Asshat."

Sefi winced. Alfred sat up, lips curving. "Nice of you to ask, shitface."

"I would continue, but we would kill Sefi."

Standing, Alfred brushed by Arthur as Sefi hummed his agreement. Slipping on his bomber jacket, Alfred opened the door, calling back, "You coming, eyebrows?"

"Tosser." Arthur was slipping a grey sweatshirt over his head, and Alfred forced himself to look away as they stepped outside, saying goodbye to Sefi.  _It's like he knows he can win when he wears the sweatshirt. Damn that stupid sweatshirt._

Trying to keep composed, Alfred glanced at the shorter as they walked down the street. Despite it being night, the street was lit up with glowing signs and the occasional string of lights connecting buildings to buildings above and across the street. There was jazz music coming from somewhere, and there were people out- it was livelier than it had been for awhile. He nudged Arthur's shoulder with his own, and green eyes caught blue.

"The night life is spectacular, isn't it?" Arthur commented, lights from above jumping across his skin. Alfred couldn't take his eyes off him, and Arthur laughed airily, "What? Is there something on my face?"

"No. It's just..."  _When I look at you, my heart does backflips, and when we lay in bed together, I want to hold you, and when you laugh and smile, I want to kiss you._  "It's nothing," Alfred finished lamely.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and they walked into the cafe, which was filled to the brim, alive with chatter and the smell of alcohol. A few catcalls and whistles suddenly rose up when the two entered- Lou, Modi, Ezer, and Milton already looked slightly inebriated, and were waving at them with ridiculous grins.

Lou was leaning back in his chair, waving the hand holding a glass filled with beer at them. "Heey! We thought you'd never show up!"

Sitting down beside Lou, Alfred chuckled, rubbing his head as it pounded. The smell of beer didn't help. Arthur sat beside Modi on the opposite side of the table, who teased, "Can stuffy Kirkland even drink?"

Everyone laughed when Arthur stuck his nose in the air at the challenge. "You want to see me drink?" His eyes flashed to Alfred's, and then back to Modi's, looking dangerous as his lips quirked. "Someone get me a glass."

—

"And... and then... we was yellin', Gefilte fish! Gefilte fiiish!" Milton slurred, arms flailing in the air.

Drunk laughs echoed across the cafe, and Modi hiccuped. Arthur was face-down on the table, body shaking with tipsy laughter- Alfred wanted to take a picture. He was the only one  _not_ inebriated, as he had turned down beer for coffee, claiming his head was still throbbing (which, it wasn't: Alfred just didn't like beer, but would never admit that).

Lou rocked back on the two legs of his chair. "What even is that?"

Arthur's hand was circling above his head in a funny gesture as he muttered, "Poached fish, fish in jars, chopped up fish..." He trailed off, groaning, "Want more beer..."

"I think it might be time for us to go," Alfred stated, pushing his chair out and standing up.

"Noooo!" All of them whined in unison. Arthur's eyes were half-lidded as Alfred dragged him up from the chair onto his feet and out the door of the cafe, waving at the others.

Arthur was stumbling around- Alfred secured an arm around him, trying not to laugh as Arthur shouted out, "I know when I 'ad enough, an' I wan' more! Let me go!"

"All you're getting is water and sleep."

"Don't make me go 'Lizabethan pirate on you, twat!" He swung at Alfred blindly, face flushed and completely wasted.

"We should go out for drinks more often," Alfred snickered, opening the door to their house. Sefi was sitting on the couch, listening to the radio, when his eyes caught the drunk sight of the British Empire.

"You let him get  _drunk?"_ Sefi asked, thick eyebrows furrowed.

Alfred hoisted the writhing body over his shoulder, and Arthur made an undignified squawk. "You try and stop the British when they're intent on proving something. It's most definitely impossible."

"Alfred, Alfred, put me  _down!"_ Arthur started to kick his legs, hitting Alfred right in the gut. Alfred hissed out and walked into the bedroom, throwing Arthur onto the bed, who rolled over onto his stomach and groaned out, "I think I'm gonna' throw up..."

"Jesus Christ," Alfred sighed.

 


	13. Vulnerable

June 1, 1948

Alfred's eyes snapped open, focused on the ceiling. The room was almost pitch black- it was early in the morning. Stifling a yawn, he glanced down at the face buried in his shoulder, and ran fingers through the messy blonde strands rhythmically.

As he stared at Arthur, Alfred mused,  _H_ _e's still wearing the sweatshirt. With no pants, damn it. But why do I even care? He's attractive, yes. I can't deny that. But it's not like... I feel anything for him other than pure attraction._

_Right?_

Arthur shifted onto his side, arm draping over Alfred's chest limply, nose buried into his neck. Fondly, Alfred's fingers dropped to trace his cheek.  _You're a handful of a drunk, aren't you?_

He swallowed, feeling his heart rate escalate, and suddenly, it dawned on him.

_Ah, shit. I'm head over heels in love with Arthur Kirkland._

—

"He  _broke_ it?" Arthur hissed, eyes wide.

Modi sheepishly shrugged. "It's not my fault-"

"He was  _driving_  your  _motorcycle_ in the dark while he was  _drunk!_ I fail to see how it  _isn't_ your fault!" Pacing across the floors of headquarters, Arthur continued in a frenzy, "And now, Ezer is out of commission."

"It's only a broken hand," Alfred offered, shooting a quick glance at Modi.

Arthur's blazing eyes focused their wrath on the newest speaker. He laughed cynically, voice raising in pitch, "Oh, yes. Only a broken hand. How could I forget? It's not like  _he can't fly without a hand!"_

Lou opened his mouth to give his input, and then quickly shut it as Arthur continued, "Ezer, Alfred,  _and_  Milton are out of commission. I need tea.  _I need tea now."_

Tolkovsky was leaning against the desk in the center of headquarters, and murmured, "We still have Lou and Modi. And with only one Avia, each can fly twilight patrols."

"And we have you," Alfred commented, eyes locking with Arthur's. He gave a soft, almost sarcastic huff, and sat down in one of the chairs. Looking at the other three in the room, Alfred asked, "Could I speak to him alone for a moment?"

Lou winked at him, following Modi and Tolkovsky out. Arthur promptly snapped, "What?"

"The second wave of Avia pilots and planes should be on their way from Czechoslovakia soon, yeah? So don't wo-"

"Stop trying to play the hero," Arthur hissed, taking Alfred off guard. " _Because you aren't."_

Those words were spat with a vicious, venomous tone, like a slap to Alfred's face (or his pride).  _What the hell?_ Alfred walked closer, extending a hand to touch his shoulder. "What are you-"

Arthur swatted his hand away, standing up and snarling, "I know what you're doing. You  _won't_  play me again,  _United States of America_." He stormed past a wide-eyed Alfred, swinging the door open haphazardly and walking out of the room.

Modi and Lou peered in (no doubt eavesdropping), eyes locking with the blue of a very bewildered, confused Alfred Jones.

—

Arthur didn't come back to headquarters, even when the sun began to set in Tel Aviv. Alfred, essentially useless now that he was out of commission (cracked ribs), paced around, trying not to worry and worrying nonetheless. Modi and Lou tried to comfort him in their own ways- of course, Alfred assumed they had no idea what was really going on. And Alfred himself didn't even know, no matter how many times he pondered the one-sided argument.

"Did you do something to him, maybe?" Lou asked.

Wearily, Alfred sat down. "He was wasted the last time we spoke. He couldn't have remembered anything, even if I had said something."

"You didn't say something before he got drunk that might have offended him?"

"No." Alfred's eyebrows drew together. "Maybe? I don't know... it was just our usual banter, I think."

Modi, who had been quiet, murmured, "When one is drunk, memories tend to resurface. Perhaps a bad memory was triggered. How long have you known Arthur?"

Alfred wasn't sure how to answer that. "A long time, I suppose."

"You should talk to him," Lou suggested. "That's the only way you'll know."

Frustrated, Alfred threw his head back, sighing, "The last time we talked, I didn't get a word in edgewise, Lou."

"If you want him, you'll fight for him."

Alfred's eyes widened, and he flushed. "I- no, I don't... it's not that-"

Both Modi and Lou grinned as he floundered. Lou laughed, "Just shut up and go get him."

Alfred took his advice.

—

It turned out, Alfred wasn't as brave as he thought he was. He knew Arthur was hiding in the cafe, the place he always retreated to when he was disgruntled- and Alfred couldn't step inside.

He instead walked the streets of Tel Aviv, looking up at the sky now and then, though recently, it had been quiet in the air. Sitting down at a table with an umbrella casting shade over it, Alfred exhaled, running fingers through his hair.

"You look shellshocked, Alfred."

Glancing up, Alfred met Sefi's gaze, who sat down opposite of him. Eyebrows raising, he muttered, "I am."

"It is because of Arthur."

Past the point of being surprised when Sefi could read his mind, Alfred nodded. Sefi continued, "Have you come to terms with your feelings yet?"

Alfred vaguely remembered that conversation, preceding the moment Arthur asked Alfred to sleep in his bed. "You said that there was a new feeling. That Arthur felt it, too." He then remembered his revelation in the dark hours of morning, and his voice dropped to a bitter whisper. "I know what that feeling is. And there's no way it's reciprocated."

"Ah, but it is made so clear that  _it is._ Can you not see it?"

"He hates me, Sefi." 

Sefi sighed, looking up at the sky. "You are foolish to think so. I suppose it is true-" he grinned, "-that you cannot read the atmosphere."

Alfred scowled, but before he could retort, Sefi said, "Now listen to me, for I will only say this once.  _Arthur Kirkland_  is quick to trust, quick to love, quick to forgive. The  _British Empire_  is not."

"So... you're saying Arthur's bipolar?"

A hand rubbed over Sefi's face in exasperation. "אידיוט. I am saying that Arthur is a kindhearted fool who feels like he has been played by you:  _America_. He feels the pressure not to let it happen again- he is the British Empire. Therefore, he tries to be like the British Empire- stoic, emotionless, invincible." Sefi's lips curved upward. "But he is also Arthur Kirkland. He is human just as much as he is a nation. And let me enlighten you- Arthur Kirkland is vulnerable... and afraid of trusting."

Alfred let it sink in. "Arthur thinks... I'm playing him for a fool. That I'm just trying to get close to him so I can hurt him again. And as the British Empire- the logical side of him- he  _won't_  let that happen. As Arthur Kirkland- the emotional side..." His eyes shot wide and locked with Sefi's. "He  _can't_  let that happen.

Sefi nodded, his fingers tapping against the table. "You see, Arthur feels the same as you, Alfred. Yet he is afraid to trust you, afraid to be vulnerable, afraid to love, because when he was all those things, he was hurt."

It was almost a relief, to finally understand such a deep thought process. "Thank you, Sefi." However, Alfred slowly fell into realization that he had no idea how to make Arthur think differently. "But... how can I convince him otherwise?"

Sefi shrugged. "I've said enough. You'll figure it out."

Alfred stood, fingers clenching and unclenching nervously. "Ok," he breathed out. "Ok. What should I do?"

Sighing, Sefi pointed in the direction of their house. "Go to him, אידיוט."

 

 


	14. Broken Walls

Alfred swung open the door of his temporary house, heart wildly thumping in his chest- because there was always the chance that Sefi was wrong, that Arthur didn't feel anything toward him, that Alfred was going to make a fool of himself.

But Alfred pushed those thoughts out of his mind, focused on what he wanted to say to Arthur as he walked to their room and pushed open the door ever so slowly. Arthur was sitting on the bed, eyes focused on the floor, and he didn't move when Alfred showed himself.

"Arthur."

Green eyes met blue. Arthur looked cold, emotionless, stony, everything Alfred feared he would be. " _What_?"

"I... I don't want this." That was all that Alfred could say. Arthur's eyes narrowed, and he laughed- short, sardonic, bitter.

"You think I do? I never asked for any of this bullshit."

Indignantly, Alfred took another step inside the room, snapping, "You won't guilt-trip me. Everything I did back then was what I needed to do, and you know that. You _knew_ that."

Arthur was suddenly standing, hands curled into fists, and he snarled, "You  _needed_ to humiliate me?" His voice was rising, almost hysterically, and Alfred took a step back. "To break me into shards? To rip away  _every_  ounce of trust I ever possessed!?"

" _Shut it!_ You brought that on yourself, bastard!"

"All I  _ever did_ was care for you!" Arthur looked dangerously close to hitting Alfred. "And you threw it in my face-"

"Oh, you're  _so_ melodramatic. I can feel my heart just  _breaking_ ," Alfred taunted, shocked at the venom that dripped in his voice. Even Arthur stopped, his eyes round and jaw clenched. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Alfred wanted to break out in a string of curses. This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. Arthur was supposed to run to him, to love him, to live happily ever after with him. He wasn't supposed to accuse Alfred of destroying him, wasn't supposed to look like his world had just been shattered by 11 words.

But Arthur steeled himself, enclosing himself and his emotions behind walls. He quickly became indifferent, looked away from Alfred, and his voice turned monotone. "I understand now." Alfred inhaled sharply- Arthur looked like a bleak, lifeless doll. "And I was right. You were just trying to get close to me, to gain my trust, so you could break me all over again." His eyes were no longer fiery and defiant- they were dull, achromatic. "All of those things you did were just... just to trick me. To play me."

"Don't make assumptions." Alfred tilted his head, lips parted with all the words he wanted to yell but couldn't.

"What should I do, then?" Arthur's voice had dropped to a whisper, so suddenly that it took Alfred off-guard. "I-"

" _Arthur._ You know that's not true."  _I didn't play you for your kindness. I'm not out to get you._

"And why should I believe you? You played me once." Arthur's tone was still low.

Alfred didn't understand why  _Arthur couldn't just believe him._ Anger started to well, and spurred him to walk hastily forward, grab Arthur's shoulders, and push him against the wall with all of the force he possessed. All of the life, the color, sprung back into Arthur's face, as if all his walls were suddenly being torn and broken down. He threw his fist at Alfred's face, but Alfred caught it and pinned Arthur's hands above his head, looming over him. " _You listen to me,"_ he snarled. "I never played you for a fool, not once. You always think that you're the only one who suffered during the Revolutionary War, the only one who cried, the only one who felt like their  _existence and soul was being stepped on and broken into bloody shards of glass."_ His voice was ridiculously, loudly emotive, but Alfred couldn't stop from yelling, " _I_ wailed  _every_ night for you!  _I_ prayed I could see you and that you'd jump into my arms and everything could go back the way it could be!  _I_ felt my heart shattering  _every time_ I heard about you from someone else or passed you in the hall, because as much as I wanted you, _I couldn't have you!_ "

Overestimating an empire (no less the British Empire) was not a smart thing to do, because as soon as he finished, Alfred felt Arthur's knee in his gut, and he drew back. Arthur furiously launched himself at Alfred, and the two collapsed onto the ground in a whirling fight of fists and knees and bodies.

" _I hate you!"_ Arthur screamed. Alfred bowled him over, pinned him on the ground, and realized with a start that Arthur's eyes were watery, bleary, on the brink of tears. Alfred paused, eyes wide, and Arthur's voice trembled as he struggled to fight off Alfred's heavy weight. " _Damn it!_ You... you're... the only one..."

Alfred didn't understand and couldn't speak anyway. Thoughts whirling, he opened his lips, to force  _at least something_ out, but Arthur was suddenly throwing arms around him- completely, utterly defenseless. No more barriers, no more walls- vulnerable, open, something that Arthur never  _was._

And Arthur was shaking as he whispered, " _Don't leave me again. Don't break my heart."_

_This_ was Arthur accepting him-  _this_ was Arthur conveying that he trusted him, however fragile, delicate, that string of trust was. There was a heavy strike of pain in Alfred's heart as he pulled away from Arthur slightly. Eyes searched each other, and Alfred, still hovering over Arthur, murmured the only thing that came to mind. "I guess I'll stick around."

His lips spread into a broad grin, and Arthur was crying, laughing, and smiling all at the same time. They embraced, and despite the awkward angle and his aching back and neck, and the soreness from his crash that had been aggravated, Alfred decided that  _this bittersweet moment-_ wrapping Arthur's frame in his, laughing, sobbing, deliriously happy- was everything.

 


	15. Premonition

3 June, 1948

Waking up to a soft nose touching his was something Alfred could  _definitely_ get used to. Eyelashes brushed against his cheek, and soft puffs of warm breath fell against his chin.

Eyes opening, Alfred focused on the peaceful expression Arthur wore, and felt his lips quirk upward. Despite their breakthrough two days ago, Arthur had remained distant, wary- he was still insecure. Alfred understood. It would be hard to change a mindset after so many years of believing it.

Part of his being (the irrational side) urged him to kiss Arthur. Beautiful, aloof Arthur, who hid behind walls, who tried to hide his love because he adamantly believed people would hurt him.

Sitting up in bed, Alfred decided that kissing him wouldn't be for the best. Yet.

"Stop moving," He heard Arthur murmur, rubbing his eyes and rolling onto his back. Alfred felt a tug on his arm and glanced over- Arthur's slim, petite hand was gently pulling him backward. Rotating onto his stomach, Alfred lowered himself beside him, elbows propped up on the mattress. Arthur eyed him sleepily. "You're warm."

_I will lose all sense of self-control if you keep saying things like that._ Alfred reached out, smoothing back the hair from his forehead. It stuck out in all angles, and yet was still soft to the touch. Arthur closed his eyes, relaxing into the touch slowly. "I have patrol today."

Alfred let out a hum of agreement. "It's been more than three days since we've seen action over Tel Aviv. Maybe I could fly today. Since, you know, my injuries are-"

"No. You need to rest." Arthur rolled onto his side, facing Alfred, and their feet brushed. Neither recoiled from the touch. Alfred forgot how to reply and simply nodded, tentatively throwing his arm around Arthur's waist.

_Yeah. I could definitely get used to this._

—

It was going to be a strange day, Alfred decided, because Arthur didn't want tea.

When they walked into the cafe, he had shrugged, simply saying, "I'm not very thirsty."

_Arthur Kirkland never denied tea._ "Are you sick?"

He gave an unsure, yet charming smile, which instantly shut Alfred up. "Not at all. I'm just not thirsty."

Alfred could sense there was more to the story. Arthur was a good actor, but denying tea gave the fact he was doing so all away.  _When I don't want coffee, why don't I want it? Usually because I'm nervous. But why would he be nervous? Is it because of what we talked about?_

They split ways at Sde Dov- Arthur to the hangar to prepare for his patrol, and Alfred to headquarters. He was greeted by a seemingly sleep-deprived Modi, who had a blanket over his shoulders. Alfred sat down beside him, raising his coffee as a greeting.

"Good morning, Alfred." His eyes lit up, and Modi sat a little straighter in his seat. "Ah, I forgot to tell you. I met your friend yesterday."

Eyebrows furrowing, Alfred replied, "Really? Who?"

"That would be me, אמריקה." Glancing up, Alfred spotted none other than Sefi, dressed in IAF attire.

Alfred stood up, murmuring over his shoulder at Modi, "I'll be right back." Modi said something, but Alfred didn't hear, and forced Sefi to follow him into a deserted hallway. "What the hell are you doing here? And why are you dressed like one of us?"

Sefi didn't look intimidated. He stared right back at Alfred, and snapped, "I'm not a dog, despite what the world may think."

Alfred caught the reference- though subtle, it proved a point. He instantly felt guilty, and let go of Sefi's arms. "I know that. But if you were caught as a personification... the people might not take it well."

"But the same goes for you." Alfred caught his mistake too late, and Sefi continued, "Do you understand now, that you are just like the rest of the world? You think yourself higher than us, but you are quick to reprimand others who attack us."

Their eyes locked- Alfred wanted to deny it. He wasn't prejudice. But, perhaps he was- it was just shrouded, muted. He looked away, and muttered, "I.. I'm sorry, Sefi. I didn't realize-"

"It is ok!" Sefi interrupted, smiling warmly, taking Alfred off-guard. "I have told you before, love is our greatest commandment, yet the hardest. And speaking of, you should go see your lover. He is unusually antsy this morning."

"Yeah, he-" Alfred suddenly flushed, catching the half of Sefi's words he almost brushed off. "I'm not- He's not-  _We_ are not lovers." Sefi only laughed, and Alfred walked swiftly away, trying to will down the red tinge of his face as he walked into the hangar.

Arthur was fiddling with his aviator hat, leaning back on his plane. He hadn't noticed Alfred, who was leaning in the doorway.

"Hey, eyebrows. Wake up."

Arthur's head snapped up, eyes startled, and he dropped his hat, stammering, "A-Alfred! I.. I didn't see you. There." He coughed. "In the hall. Er, doorway."

He continued to ramble, eyes flittering around the hangar, blushing endearingly. Alfred tried not to laugh, covering his mouth with two fingers as his lips spread into a grin. "My bad," he chuckled, bending down to grab Arthur's hat. He walked closer, until he was right in front of Arthur, and gazed down at him. "But I wanted to ask you something."

Green eyes peered up at him- Alfred felt a sense of deja vu. "Why are you nervous?"

"Nervous? I'm not nervous. Why would I be..." Arthur trailed off, rubbing the back of his head. "I just.. have a weird feeling."

Alfred held out the hat he had dropped, and asked, "Weird?"

"It's nothing." Arthur replied briskly, gathering the aviator hat in his hands and strapping it on over his head.

"Your hands are shaking," Alfred murmured. He reached out, covering them with his own. Arthur flushed and looked away as Alfred continued, "So, tell me what's wrong."

"Ah... it's nothing, I promise. Just pre-flight jitters." Arthur tried a smile. "But... thank you."

"You know I would  _gladly_ fly for you today," Alfred teased. Arthur's smile grew brighter, and Alfred thought his heart was going to jump outside his chest.  _Calm down, you idiot. Play it cool. You are totally in control of this situation. Play it-_

Arthur raised himself on his tip-toes, slightly tilted his face, and kissed Alfred's cheek, grasping the front of Alfred's uniform. All rational, sane thought left Alfred, and whatever he had been thinking was left behind in the wind as Arthur whispered against his cheek, nose brushing against the lobe of his ear, "You're a lovely, perfect idiot."

_Not in control of the situation!_ Alfred's subconscious screamed at him. Arthur pulled back, lips curled mischievously. "I'll see you when I get back?"

"Y...Yeah! Of course!" Alfred stammered, a little too enthusiastically.  _Should I walk out now?_ _Oh, crap. I can't move._

Arthur strapped his goggles on, flashed a cheeky grin at Alfred, and hopped into his Spitfire. Alfred all but ran out of the hangar, blushing like a high schooler.

_Damn you, Arthur Kirkland._

 


	16. Disappear

Alfred walked into headquarters once again, breathing out heavily as he returned to his seat beside Modi. Tapping his fingers on the desk, Modi yawned. "I hate twilight patrols."

"You're a lucky bastard. At least you get to fly," Alfred grumbled, putting on his headset. Being apart of communications personnel was almost as stressful as flying. Static crackled as Arthur's voice came over the line, mandatorily relaying his coordinates to Alfred.

"Skies are clear," Arthur reported. "No action."

Alfred flipped the mic of his headset up, turning to Modi and relaxing into his seat. "So. You met Sefi."

"Yeah. He's really..."

"Wise?" They finished in unison. Alfred grinned. "Yeah, that's Sefi."

"Does he have a last name? I've never heard of him around here, but he says he's lived in Tel Aviv all his life."

He was saved by the overpowering voice of none other than Lou Lenart, who came striding into the building, clasping Alfred's shoulder as he sat on his other side. "Who's up in the sky?"

Alfred flinched. "Damn, you really are louder than I am."

"Arthur," Modi answered Lou's question, shooting a pointed glance at Alfred. "He's the only one who could be, anyway." His eyes suddenly grew wider, catching Alfred's attention. "Alfred, I forgot. You weren't here yesterday."

"Nope. Why?" He glanced at Lou, who was chatting with another person and not paying attention to Modi.

"Milton left for America yesterday," He revealed, biting his lip. "His injuries weren't healing. Apparently they were more severe than we thought."

Alfred couldn't think of an adequate reply. "Oh." There was the tinge of a bittersweet memory that lingered in Alfred's mind. He had grown fond of Milton after that shared experience of jettisoning into the Mediterranean Sea, and wondered why the pilot had left without saying goodbye. The 101 Squadron was now reduced to a mere 5 people, and two were out of commission.

"He left this. For you." Modi was holding out a piece of folded paper. "He told us it was for your eyes only."

Alfred meant to open the note then and there, but furious static and Arthur's urgent voice came over the radio. "This is Red 1. Requesting immediate backup."

Everyone in headquarters hushed, tuned into the conversation as Alfred flipped his mic close to his mouth. "Copy that." He glanced to Modi, and without another word, Modi took off down the corridor to the hangar. "Alon is on his way up. Is there a breach in the airfield?"

"Two Egyptian C-47's and two Spitfires. Strafers and escorts. Permission to fire?"

_He knew,_ it suddenly dawned on Alfred.  _He knew the entire time that this was going to happen, but he didn't tell anyone._ "Permission granted." He quickly looked up at the hand on his shoulder- Dan Tolkovsky was by his side, watching the radar. The green line spun monotonously around, and sure enough, four green dots started to make their way onto the black screen. The entirety of headquarters broke out into rushed, urgent voices, people running around like bees in a beehive. Alfred tried to calm himself down, breathing out slowly.  _Arthur can handle himself._

Modi's voice filtered through the radio. "Red 2 is up in the air. Red 1 is in clear view."

Tolkovsky took Modi's old seat beside Alfred and put the headset on, commanding, "Red 2, engage the strafers. Red 1, take the escorts."

"Copy that," both pilots replied. Even from inside headquarters, Alfred could hear the sounds of a dogfight: planes slicing through the wind, rapid-fire shots, engine of the Avia rattling.

"Red 2, swing out to sea. Sun will be behind you."

It happened so suddenly, Alfred's shoulders jumped. A loud screeching came over the headset: everyone winced and the ones who weren't wearing a headset covered their ears. He heard a startled gasp that sounded distinctly British, and Modi shouted, " _Shit!"_

_"Someone report!"_ Tolkovsky hissed. There was no reply. Alfred spun around his chair, bolted up, threw his headset off, and raced out of headquarters, despite someone yelling for him to come back. Heart sinking low in his chest, almost breaking the door as he bounded outside, Alfred feverishly searched the sky for a sharp glistening of metal reflecting the sun while gliding through the air.

Many were out on the streets, pointing, looking up to the sky, astonished at the scene they were witnessing. An actual dogfight in Tel Aviv: but not just over the city. Alfred watched as Arthur's Spitfire, distinct with its British flag colored on each side, swooped down mere meters above the streets, leading the other Egyptian Spitfires on a wild goose chase as they weaved in and out of buildings. People in the streets had to duck down as Arthur zoomed by, literally taking the breath away from most. Cheers were ringing out, because this was the first,  _real_ dogfight seen. Whereas Alfred's dogfight had been aways from Tel Aviv, out of sight from most spectators, Arthur was literally using his knowledge of the city to his advantage: in front of the entire population.

It was spectacular. Alfred assumed that the screeching had been result of a steep dive into the city, which exerted force on not only the plane, but the pilot as well. No wonder both had made sounds of uncomfortable exertion.

A hand was suddenly pulling his shoulder back. Alfred turned and saw Lou, who was trying to usher him back to headquarters. That was when both saw three planes flash around the corner, just above the building-line. Modi was trailing the two Egyptian C-47 bombers at a higher altitude, but avoided diving into the streets of the city. Loud cracks resounded as he shot at the bombers, who instantly split up at the indication of gunfire.

One was smoking- Modi had already made contact. As they circled around the top of the city, Arthur came swooping down onto the street, and the people became ecstatic, cheering as the Spitfire pulled up hard, nose straight in the air as the plane escalated into the sky.

Lou was dragging Alfred back again, but as much as Alfred wanted to protest, he allowed himself to be forced into his seat, strapping on the headset once again. "Sorry. Your dispatcher was outside."

_"Damn you, Jones. I've been trying to talk to you for bloody five minutes!"_

Alfred let out a huff of amusement. "Yeah, yeah. Calm down, spitfire."

"Very funny. You're a terrible dispatcher." Before Alfred could retort, Arthur continued, "I need to get these Spitfires out of the city. I think I've angered them sufficiently, so they'll follow me wherever I go-"

Tolkovsky broke in. "If you're implying what I think you are-"

"I  _need_  to get them out of the city. And I'm sure they'll get frustrated and start shooting, so we don't want civilians in danger. Just trust me- I know what I'm doing."

Alfred looked to Tolkovsky, who was running a hand over his face and through his hair. He sighed out, once, twice, and then muttered, "Yeah. Alright."

"I'm going to lead them outside of Tel Aviv."

"Aim for Rosh Haayin. Don't go any farther. You hear me?" Alfred demanded, trying to contain the protectiveness that so obviously could be detected in his voice.

"It's not like I'm going to cross the border, tosser. Calm down."

—(Arthur's POV)—

Arthur set free of the buildings, climbing higher and outward- as far away from Tel Aviv as he could while maintaining safety. He bantered with Alfred as he led the Egyptain Spitfires in circles, too fast and skilled to be hit with gunfire.  _This is child's play. Soon enough, they'll grow bored, and leave._

His mind started to drift as he looped, avoiding more bullets. There was a slight twinge in his chest when he remembered his conversation with Alfred in the two days that had passed. Honestly, it was the only thing that he had been thinking about.

Arthur felt an embarrassed flush travel up his neck and wanted to bang his head against a brick wall.  _God, I'm such an idiot. Why do I always melt into a vulnerable pile of goo when he's around?_

His thoughts were abruptly cut off with a loud  _CRACK!_

It happened so quickly Arthur lost control, entering into an unprecedented spin toward the earth. He had looped too far, and one of the Spitfires must have hit- all of the breath instantly left him, because the windshield was cracked, sucking out all the air, and a bullet was buried in his gut, blood seeping through his uniform, though he couldn't feel it.

There were frantic voices over the radio, but everything was muted, and Arthur swam on the borderline of unconsciousness, black touching the corners of his eyes as he plummeted down.

 


	17. Silencer

4 June 1948

Everything was silent and black. Arthur could hear himself breathing, panting, could see vivid images in his mind, could feel his teeth digging into his lip, could taste the tangy blood on his tongue.

Shirtless, upper half completely bare, ropes holding his wrists above his head, Arthur heard footsteps circling, around and around. He awaited the next torturous blow, all he had known since he had awoken in the pitch black cell.

_CRACK!_

The whip whistled through the air, struck him in between the shoulder blades. Arthur's teeth dug into his lip once again, eyes watering with the mental power not to scream out. Sharp grooves dug into skin, pulled and twisted, ripped pieces of skin out, blood dripping down in rivulets, perfect, sickening drops.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, the whip dragged down his skin, snakelike, instead of being pulled up. It suddenly disappeared, the air catching open wounds, burning. Blonde hair, drenched with moisture, covered green eyes, some strands stuck in bloody gashes across his cheek.

They would find out soon enough that Arthur could not be killed. The torment would never end, and Arthur could imagine what would happen. Rape. Waterboarding. Mutilation. Abacination. Psychological torture.

His mouth fell open, gasping for air as the next lash landed on his neck, peeling sensitive skin away, a grim foreshadowing of what was to come.

—

Sefi couldn't find him.

That's what scared Alfred the most- Arthur was outside the border, in enemy hands, and though Arthur was tough, he was immortal, and could be broken.

It had been a solemn day, though no common citizen knew otherwise. Tel Aviv was now a force to be reckoned with, and with new recruits on their way from training in Czechoslovakia, with new Avias being shipped in soon, the 101 Squadron would grow. Everything was looking up.

Everyone assumed Arthur was dead. Tolkovsky confirmed it in the debriefing. Alfred begged for a force to go searching for Arthur, and was denied. Lou and Modi didn't know otherwise. They shot Alfred looks of sorrow, pity, but didn't approach him.

Alfred couldn't tell them. What people didn't understand scared them, and no one understood the life of a personification. No one could grasp immortality.

As Alfred slaved over a strategic map of Israel and its enemies, marking where Arthur had crashed and places he could be, the door opened to his secluded conference room in headquarters, and he heard Sefi say, "It's time we told them."

He knew the issue would be brought up soon enough. "I can find Arthur without telling them."

"Do you think this is a game, you bastard?"

Alfred turned, eyebrows raised, meeting the furious gaze of Sefi. "Did  _you_  just curse?"

Sefi was not strong. He was short, he was small- and he could be very intimidating. He pinned Alfred against the table with a simple glare, hissing, "You will never find him without the help of the IAF. And if you don't have them, you don't have me, either."

"How the  _hell_ are you going to convince everyone in the IAF that we're personifications?! Ask them to shoot us in the head and and see what happens? You want to end up in a coma for a month?"

"Trust me!" Sefi shouted, and Alfred's eyes grew softer.  _He's just trying to help. I'm being stubborn._

And so, Alfred found himself trailing behind Sefi, antsy, sweating, nervously twining his fingers together as Sefi announced their status as personification.

Lou laughed, playing it off as a joke. Ezer, arm in a cast, and Tolkovsky stared at them with narrowed eyes. Modi looked impassive.

"Wait." Lou's eyebrows lowered. "You're... Are you serious?"

Sefi simply nodded. Alfred felt like shaking his head furiously, but copied Sefi's motions.

"And how are we supposed to believe that?" Ezer questioned skeptically.

Pointing to Modi, Sefi started, "Your name is Modi Alon. You were born in 1921, in Safed, Palestine. You moved to Tel Aviv when you were still young. In 1940, you became a fighter pilot for the British Royal Air Force. When the British and the Palestinians became enrapt in conflict, you felt torn between both, but eventually chose your own people, and quit the RAF. Now, you are the commander of the 101 Squadron, the lifeblood of Israel itself. You have a wife who is pregnant with a daughter and you would do anything to protect them, even fly one of the most unmanageable planes the world has to offer."

Everyone was silent. Sefi smiled. "Who's next?"

—

5 June 1948

Even though it had been strange at first, the majority of the IAF accepted them, to Alfred's surprise. Ezer, of course, was still in denial, and so was Tolkovsky. Lou followed Alfred around for the rest of the day, hounding him about their country, and even though Modi pretended he wasn't interested, the personification saw him listening with rapt interest as Alfred explained the battles he'd been in since 1776 and on.

But, there was now the problem of Arthur. He was alive, and he was somewhere across the border, probably being held prisoner in an enemy camp. And even though Tolkovsky believed somewhat, he was still hesitant to send out a rescue squad that Alfred demanded. There was a rumor going around that a truce was to begin soon, but Alfred couldn't and wouldn't wait.

And, as he sat in the cafe, sipping his coffee, he stared at the seat Arthur would always sit in, and felt his heart clench painfully with some sort of loneliness.

Sefi shook him out of his thoughts, murmuring, "You know, Tolkovsky isn't going to give up men just to rescue one pilot."

"Then I'll go myself."

"Don't exclude me." Sefi's eyes flashed, smiling almost impishly. "I'm coming whether you like it or not."

"Psht, there's no way I could stop you, anyway. You always-"

"Alfred," Sefi interrupted, his facial expression changing to confused. "I feel him."

"What?"

His eyes closed, and his face took on a pained expression. "We must still be connected. He was this land for awhile before I was. And... I can feel him. Arthur."

Alfred didn't understand how that could work, but asked, "What is he feeling?"

"I... I can't tell. It's all dark and... fuzzy. Like being underwater."

Sefi snapped out of his trance, shivering. Alfred pushed his coffee into Sefi's hands, urging him to drink without actually saying anything. That was when the door was swung open, the bell ringing cheerfully, and a group of IAF pilots waltzed in, led by Modi, Lou, and Ezer.

Lou slammed his hands down on the table, smirking, and declared, "We talked to some of the new recruits that came in today about that rescue mission. And we're all in."

Alfred's eyes widened. "But... Tolkovsky denied it. And I can't guarantee anyone's safety."

That loud, obnoxious, endearing laugh rang through the cafe. "Alright. When do we start?"

 


	18. Unified

"The truce roughly starts around June 11," Modi explained. "That'll be the optimal time to leave."

"I'm not waiting that long.  _Arthur_ can't wait that long." Alfred stated firmly.

Lou, boots resting up on the table, murmured, "I'm with Alfred." Alfred gave him an acknowledging nod, pacing around the room as Sefi leaned over the table, measuring distances on the map and marking potential areas Arthur could be in.

It was like finding a needle in a haystack.

"So, why can't you use your country-voodoo power thing to find him?" Lou asked.

"It is not that simple, loud one," Sefi murmured. Lou didn't seem to notice the snark in Sefi's voice. "He is not in Israel, so I cannot detect him."

Modi tapped his fingers on the desk, sitting beside Lou, a dark expression clouding his eyes. "But Arthur, technically, was this land." He glanced up at Sefi, and their eyes locked, as if both were in a trance. "So, you must be able to feel him."

Alfred detected that something was off as he paused his pacing to watch. There was something in Modi's voice that hinted he was asking more than what he was really asking. But, whatever it was, Sefi snapped out of it, replying, "Yes. I feel him. But that does not mean I know where he is."

"Oh, that actually makes sense, you know," Lou started to laugh. "I was wondering why your eyebrows looked just like Arthur's."

Sefi scowled. "There's nothing wrong with my eyebrows."

"That's definitely something Arthur would say," Alfred commented.

"If Arthur crashed down near Rosh Haayin-" Modi tried steering them onto the serious route- "and Rosh Haayin is right on the border... he's most likely in an enemy camp. So, we target the Arab Legion's encampments."

Alfred ran fingers through his hair, walking closer to the map. He drew a large circle around Arthur's crash site, bit his lip, and marked an "x" on the outside of Israel's border- where the most powerful Arab army was based. "Right here. We start here."

—

7 June 1948

It was all white. Sickeningly white. No windows- nothing in the room but Arthur.

He saw shoes- footsteps should have sounded, but they didn't. Sensory deprivation- one of the most powerful forms of psychological torture. It wasn't until Arthur had been moved from black to white did he wish for the beatings to continue. He was losing his self-awareness, his personal identity, and he couldn't stop it, couldn't fight his own mind.

A man entered the room, wearing white, just like their prisoner. He didn't carry a whip. He carried a white plate with white rice on it. It was the first time Arthur had seen human life- he stared defiantly back, as defiantly as he could with crusted blood down his cheek, a gouged-out eye that would grow back eventually.

The man simply watched, watched as Arthur pulled weakly against his binds in a futile show of courage, huddled in a white, achromatic room. And he smiled, lifting a finger to his lips. Arthur's mind was playing tricks on him, because he couldn't breath, because he felt all that fleeting courage melt into a massive, tangled complex of  _fear-_ fear, and nothing but it.

—

That was when Sefi woke up screaming.

Alfred instinctively grabbed his gun, scrambled out of the bed, and almost broke down Sefi's door. The personification was writing, shrieking, eyes squeezed shut, and Alfred jumped onto the bed, wrestling with Sefi until Alfred finally pinned him to the bed, both of their chests heaving for air.

"Sefi! What the-"

There were tears in his eyes when Sefi opened them, and he took in air as if he had been choked underwater. He looked absolutely terrified, fingers grasping at Alfred's night shirt, and it took awhile before he whispered, " _He's dying."_

"I...I don't understand-"

"White torture. It's white torture." Sefi's voice was shaking- tears still stained his cheeks as he heaved, "It... it'll kill him."

Alfred paled, because Sefi was talking about Arthur, and Arthur couldn't die. "What... what are you saying?"

"I... what I saw..." A shiver wracked his body, fingers spasming against Alfred's shoulder. "They know who he is. They know. They're playing his worst fear against him- they're going- they're going to kill him!" Sefi's voice grew hysterical, and Alfred tried to calm his and Sefi's raging emotions, the fear that made his heart jump out of his chest, at the same time.

"Hey," Alfred whispered, trying to at least look comforting. "Breath, ok? You're ok. You're... you're safe. So... they know he's... England?"

Nodding frantically, Sefi threw an arm over his eyes, blowing out air. "He's always feared isolation. Every door they close, every word they say or don't say, they get what they want without having to hit him." He took another long pause, and Alfred tried to connect the dots. "And they don't want information. They just want to see him break. They want to see him die. And physically-"

"It isn't possible," Alfred finished. "But they can kill him mentally."

"A shell of what he used to be."

Hopping off the bed to give Sefi space and try to maintain composure, Alfred stormed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He ran angry fingers through his hair, leaned down over the counter, and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in and out slowly.

_White torture. They lock you into a room- everything's white. Colorless. They try to reduce sounds as much as possible. They feed you white, they dress you in white, they come inside the room in white- it's like a nightmare. They torture you without beating you- they make you lose your sense of identity by solitary confinement. By playing the mind's fears. That's all they have to do, and they can control a person, just because the mind is so easily tricked by its surroundings._

"Alfred? Where are you?"

Alfred looked into the mirror, stammering out, "I-I'm in the bathroom. Hold on."

_Sefi's connection to Arthur is so much deeper than I thought. That's how he wandered into our house on that first encounter- he was pulled to Arthur. It's how Arthur knew instantly that Sefi was Israel personified. It's how Arthur knew who was invading, how he knew what to expect before I did. It's how Sefi was able to read me when we first met- he read me through Arthur. It's why he has traits that Arthur has- physically and inwardly. It's why he understood Arthur so easily when he and I were fighting. Sefi does everything through Arthur. He's here because of Arthur. And essentially..._

_He is Arthur._

It was like an earthquake shook his existence- Alfred grabbed hold of the edges on the counter, trying to steady himself from swaying, eyes wide as he stared at nothing. It made sense, although neither of the connected personifications knew.

_Because the land was Arthur. Palestine was apart of the British Empire. So, even though the British relinquished their sovereignty, when Israel would become a new, independent country, Arthur still has some sort of influence in their ways. Sefi... Sefi would always be influenced by Arthur, which is why he adopted his persona, why he's connected so closely to Arthur._

_And so, Arthur can talk through Sefi. Sefi still maintains his identity, just as Arthur maintains his, and in time, Arthur's influence will drift away, as the Israeli nation grows older and new generations form. But now, they will be connected. And Arthur will speak through him, just like he's doing right now. He's reaching out to Sefi, showing him what he's enduring, how he feels, because of this connection._

Stumbling out of the bathroom, Alfred almost ran into Sefi, who gripped his shirt again and buried his nose into Alfred's shoulder. Taken off-guard, Alfred's first instinct was to jerk away, when he realized that it was Arthur speaking, acting through Sefi, trying to fight the psychological torture inflicted upon him. And at the same time, Sefi was trying to find comfort, because he saw what Arthur saw, he felt what Arthur felt, and he needed comfort just as much as Arthur did.

Alfred embraced him, felt him sobbing, and wasn't sure who "him" was- Arthur, Sefi, or both.

 


	19. Apparation

Sefi eventually fell back asleep, although it was the afternoon, having been plagued all night with horrific images. Alfred felt a sense of duty to stay beside him- and that he did, shifting constantly in his seat and zoning out. His new revelation was shocking, to say in the least, and Alfred found himself wishing for the sweet grasp of ignorance.

_You're being a coward. You have to be there for him- for both of them._

A knock at the door jarred him from his thoughts. Giving a fleeting glance back at Sefi, Alfred walked out of the room and opened the door to a new someone, a someone who was wearing the IAF uniform.

"Are you Alfred Jones?" He asked, and all Alfred focused on were the freckles that dotted his face. It reminded him of Arthur.

"That's me." Alfred could almost feel Arthur beside him, hissing,  _Improper grammar, you buffoon!_

"I was sent by Lou. He wants you to take me out on my first run," He reported, brown eyes bright. He hopped from foot to foot enthusiastically, reminding Alfred of a young boy. He instantly sensed the man was American, and started searching through the long list of American people engrained in his mind.

"You're name... is Gideon?" Alfred asked, eyebrows scrunching as he tried to sort through the names like files. "Lichtman?"

He looked surprised, and tilted his head suspiciously. "How... how did you know that?"

Grinning, Alfred shook his head. "Lou didn't tell you?" Gideon shook his head. Alfred chuckled, grabbing his leather jacket and shutting the door behind him, stepping out beside Gideon in the hot Tel Aviv sun. "Well, keep an open mind. Oh, and let me ask- do you like coffee? Because you're going to want some while I tell you this."

—

Gideon trailed beside Alfred as they arrived at Sde Dov, face contorted in confusion as he tried to sift through what Alfred had just told him. Lou met them outside the hangar, laughing, "Did you tell him?"

"That I did," Alfred replied, swinging an arm around Gideon. "I think I've scarred him."

"We'll talk about it tonight. We're takin' all the newbies out to the cafe, and you're coming, Jones."

"That's  _the United States of America_  to you."

It was a nice break from the scary thoughts that had plagued him this morning, and Alfred found himself feeling a new sense of gratitude toward Lou that he'd never felt before. Lou led them into the hangar, where the new Avias had arrived and been assembled, and started, "Gid the Yid's been training, but we'd like him to go over protocol one last time before he starts on patrols."

Gideon rolled his eyes. "If I'm Gid the Yid, you're Lou the Jew."

Lou laughed, and Alfred suddenly could sense that there was something...  _more_  between the two. There was something there that Alfred recognized easily, and he found himself smiling as Gideon shoved Lou, scowling, a well-hidden affection lacing his features. The two reminded him of himself and Arthur, and that instantly drew a cloud over his happy thoughts, tainting them with bittersweet memories.

Trying to shake those thoughts off, Alfred asked bluntly, "You two seem close. You knew each other before this?"

Gideon looked ready to respond, but Lou overpowered him. "We were the first pilots to arrive, actually. But Gideon had to stay behind for more training, since I'm _obviously_ the more experienced pilot." He received a sharp jab in the ribs, but that only made him laugh harder. "Alright, alright. Anyways, I want Giddy to fly with you, Alfred. Since you're injuries are healed an' all, yeah?"

Alfred glanced at Gideon, who gave a slight, unsure nod. "Sounds good to me. You ready?"

—

Gideon Lichtman was  _good._

He matched Alfred, wing to wing, perfect maneuvers that were more than impressive in a shitty plane like the Avia. Lou's faith wasn't misplaced.

As much as he missed his plane, his Airacobra, it was enjoyable to be in the air again, and although he wasn't doing anything, and felt mildly uncomfortable in the new Avia, Alfred felt important. Of course, that happy, high feeling was stifled by the shadowy fate of Arthur.

As they landed back at Sde Dov, Gideon eagerly popped open the hatch, hopping out and walking briskly to where Lou stood, who had been watching them. Smirking, Alfred watched them converse, both wildly animated. As he made to jump out of the cockpit, he felt something brush up against his chest, and glanced down. The flap of his right pocket on his tan uniform was partially open, and out of one end stuck out a piece of white, crumpled paper.

Heavily, Alfred sat back down, pulling out the piece of paper roughly, tearing the corners. Briefly, he thought of how Arthur would have pulled out the paper- gently, with smooth hands, eyelashes low-

_Woah. Calm down,_ he mused. Opening the note, he noted the handwriting was smudged- grey streaks muffled messy words. It was Milton Rubenfeld's letter to him- the letter he had stuffed in his pocket and forgotten about. Breathing out heavily, he tried making out the words.

_Alfred,_

_I hope you're the first to see this._

_Due to my unfortunate injuries from our last escapade, I've returned home- though I wished to stay longer, as one of the founders of the 101 Squadron. I still remember when Modi said, "We'll make em think we gotta hundred squadrons!"_

_Modi is one of the reasons I'm writing this. Alfred, protect him. Protect them. Lou, Ezer, the others coming- they are all human and vulnerable. Just like Eddie Cohen was. I was supposed to fly in his place, that day you all took off, but Eddie won the coin toss. I remembering cursing, "Lucky bastard!" when really, I was the lucky one. Irony is a bitch._

_I know what you are. Well, mostly. Maybe not really. Ok, I'm not sure at all. But I kinda figured it out, that day we jettisoned from our planes, because I remember you healed so quickly. But the one who pieced it together for me was Modi. Yeah, he's always known. I don't know how. But he always knew, from the first day he met you, that you were different- he confirmed my suspicion while we were in the hospital._

_I keep rambling. And I'm nearing the end of this paper. So... just protect them._

_MR_

_P.S: I know you like Arthur, you sneaky bastard._

Alfred tried not to laugh and tried not to cry at the same time, because all he could think about was how unfair it was that Milton wasn't here, wasn't with the squadron he had helped create.

_I should have done something more. I should have tried harder to protect him._

"Alfred!"

Glancing up from Milton's note, crumpling it up and stuffing it into his shirt pocket, he glanced up at Lou, who was leaning against the side of his new plane. "We're going to meet up with Modi and his group at the cafe. Like I said," he shrugged, grinning, "You're coming along."

—

The cafe was alive with chatter and musky smells, and crowded at one booth were too many IAF pilots that were rowdy, antsy boys who looked a little too long after the girls that walked in. However, Modi was able to calm them all down, starting, "I've been thinking. We should have a logo."

Immediately, they all started yelling suggestions, until Lou (who obviously trumped anyone when it came to being loud) shouted, "Hey!" Everyone quieted and glanced at him. "Our main enemy is who?"

"Egypt," Gideon muttered.

"Exactly," Lou praised, and Alfred wondered if anyone caught the fond look Lou shot the younger. "And who ultimately drove the Egyptians to free the Israelites?"

Modi raised an eyebrow. "God? Wow. You're so original, Lou."

Scowling, Lou continued, "Not just God- the Angel of Death. Remember?"

"That's actually a good idea," Ezer chuckled, taking another sip of his drink. "I'm surprised."

"So, you're saying that we're angels of death?" Alfred asked, grinning as Lou enthusiastically nodded. Everyone around the table started to talk, approving or disapproving the idea, until one of the pilots grabbed a napkin, pulled out a pen from his pocket, and started to doodle something. Everyone hushed, watching as the doodle turned into something that resembled a skull.

"Of course, you would be the one to design it, Stan." Lou leaned back against the booth, his shoulder barely brushing against Gideon's, and Alfred tried not to smirk.

Stan glanced up for a moment, blonde hair falling into his eyes. "Your idea was stupid. I'm making it better, you ass."

Someone whistled, and a couple others chuckled. Anyone who knew Stan Andrews knew he was as sassy as a female teenager. Bob Vickman, sitting beside Stan, leaned over his shoulder and, with a pencil, drew in wings on both sides of the skull. Both had been artists in America before they had come, and Alfred felt a ridiculous sense of pride well in his chest.  _They're my people. Even though they're giving up their passports, their citizenship... they chose to be here._

They would be leaving in two days on their mission to rescue Arthur- all of the pilots here had opted to help. Alfred just sat back and watched them- watched as Stan and Bob drew their logo, others huddled around them or leaning eagerly over the table to look at their drawing, watched as Modi complained about how he wanted the logo to be a scorpion, Ezer laughing at him, arm still in a cast, watched Lou subtly flirt with a flustered Gideon, and a strange feeling came over him. It was almost perfect. The only ones missing were Arthur and Sefi.  _And_ , Alfred thought, looking up-

He thought he saw Eddie and Milton, leaning against the door of the cafe, both grinning contentedly- but when Alfred blinked, they were gone.

 


	20. Leave

8 June, 1948

Alfred would always remember how, on the eighth of June, something changed.

It was chaos from the moment he was jolted awake, someone urgently shouting in his ear. It was Lou, who looked like he was still trying to wake up himself, sent to retrieve Alfred as quickly as he could. As Alfred dressed, Lou hastily explained, "Radar picked up foreign aircraft in the sky. You and I are heading out."

_How the hell do you expect me to fly a plane this early in the morning without coffee?_ Alfred wanted to shriek, but contained himself. Hoping Sefi wouldn't wake up alone screaming, Alfred followed Lou out the door, racing to headquarters. An antsy, nagging feeling crawled over him.  _Last time I was here, Arthur..._

People were running around frantically, tossing loose sheets of paper everywhere, alarms were blaring, and Tolkovsky was shouting at Alfred and Lou as they walked in, "What took you so long?"

Alfred opened his mouth to explain, but Lou interjected, almost harshly, "Just get us up in the air."

"It's too late now. I've already got two up there."

"What?!" Lou screeched. Alfred's eyes widened at the aggressive tone. "Who?!"

"Modi and Gideon."

Lou's face immediately lost all colour, and as if something in him snapped, he leaned forward, dangerously, and took ahold of Tolkovsky's shirt collar. " _Listen, you son of a bitch."_ Lou's eyes narrowed into slits. " _If an inch of hair on Gideon's head is touched on_ my  _mission, I'll fucking blow your brains out."_

Tolkovsky stared back, indifferently. Sensing he would get no reply, Lou released him, roughly, and stormed out into the hall. Alfred desperately tried not to make eye contact with the air operations manager, and followed Lou briskly. Once they were alone in the white, dingy hallway, he hissed, "What the hell was that? You want to get transferred?"

Lou spun around, running angry fingers through his hair. "Piss off."

"Ok. We'll do this the hard way." Alfred took him roughly by the shoulders and pushed him back against the wall. Lou's head hit the concrete with a loud thud, making him wince. "You think you're the only one who feels guilty, bastard? I'm proof that  _you're not_." Lou blinked, looked away, and Alfred continued, tone growing softer, "I should've been in Arthur's place." He remembered Milton's letter, and emotion started to choke him. "It was supposed to be my duty. But I was a coward. I didn't let anyone know I was personified America, that I had already healed, and Arthur was too good to say anything about it.  _I was supposed to protect him._  Right?"

Lou looked up at the ceiling, breath wavering. "Is this supposed to be making me feel better? Because, it's not."

"I know how you feel. That's what I'm saying."

"You know that feeling when your heart's about to explode, and your chest tightens up, and you can't breath, and you feel like jumping off a cliff?" Lou glanced at him, uncertainly.

It was uncharacteristic, and almost sweet. Alfred's lips quirked. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. It's called agony." He paused, and then asked quietly, "Are you in love with Gideon?"

Lou sharply looked away, eyebrows slanted downward. Biting his lip, he muttered, "Is it that obvious?"

If Alfred could laugh like a certain perverted Frenchman he knew, he would have. "Nah. It's just a personification thing. We can tell when our humans fancy another."

"I don't know... _love._ I've never..." He gulped, looked nervously around, and continued, "I've never felt this way before. And... he's..."

"A guy?"

"Yeah. So, if we were caught..."

There was a conversation with Sefi that popped into Alfred's mind, and he found himself murmuring, "There's a new feeling, yeah? One that you've never felt toward anyone. So, the moment you feel it, and it doesn't go away, you assume that it's love."

"Ah, shit." Lou covered his face, shakily laughing out, "I wasn't made for this. Flirting? Yes. I'm  _a freakin' god_  at flirting. Love?  _No_."

Before Alfred could speak, Tolkovsky snapped, "Your duty is dispatching. I advise you get to it."

Lou rolled his eyes, but followed Alfred back into the room. Sitting at his assigned seat beside Lou, before he strapped on his headset, Alfred thought,  _This reminds me of talking to Arthur_.

"Did I embarrass you?"

Glancing at Lou, Alfred shook his head, vainly trying not to grin. "No. Why?"

"Because you look mortified."

Alfred shrugged. "Just thinking."

"About Arthur?"

Giving a wan smile, Alfred nodded, when Modi's voice washed over the radio. "This is Red 1. Four Spitfires in formation, directly in my line of fire. I'll make the first pass, Red 2 will follow any stragglers."

It would be difficult, because Gideon was flying one of the new Avias, and the new planes didn't have radios for communication. There was no wonder Lou was panicking. Since the Avias were shipped in parts, they needed to be assembled, and that took time- there were several still being worked on and tested. With Arthur's Spitfire probably destroyed, that left one Avia. The plane Gideon was flying now had just been assembled yesterday- the same one he had flown with Alfred.

There was awhile where everything was silent. Modi didn't report, and the ground crew in headquarters had quieted down. Lou stared into some void, and Tolkovsky leaned back on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. It gave Alfred time to think. He thought about Lou and Gideon, Milton's letter, Sefi, and  _Arthur._  And while he was thinking, he had quite a cliche breakthrough.

_I've been so blind, haven't I? I've always thought that I was the one hurt during the Revolutionary War. I was the one who suffered the most. But Arthur hurt just as much as I did. We're both so stubborn._

Shaken out of his thoughts, Alfred listened as Modi reported, "Heading back. Red 2 made contact and downed enemy aircraft. Other hostiles retreated."

Some people cheered. Lou leaned back in his seat, breathing out slowly. Tolkovsky made sure a scouting team was sent out to the crash-site, in case the enemy pilot was still alive.

Alfred relayed something back to Modi- just routine questions. His mind was elsewhere. Lou noticed, and leaned over, voice low. "I know what you're thinking. We leave tonight."

Their eyes locked. Alfred glanced at Tolkovsky. "I thought we would wait for the truce."

Lou shook his head. "If Gideon was in Arthur's place, I would leave now. I... I get it, Alfred. So, we'll leave. Tonight."

—

Sefi was sitting on one of the bar stools as Alfred opened the door to their house. He was staring into his drink, stirring it around with a spoon absentmindedly.

"We're leaving tonight."

Glancing up at the other personification, Sefi hummed, "Good."

As terrible as Alfred was at sensing the mood, he could tell there was something...off. "You ok?"

"As long as we find Arthur, I will be ok." The personification of Israel blinked, quietly continuing, "Because... it's all numb."

"...Numb?"

"There are no more dreams. No more pain. Just a steady...constant... numbness." Their eyes locked.

"Are you saying he might be comatose?"

Sefi looked uncertain. "I... I think he's blocking me out. Purposefully."

Irrational anger caused Alfred to clench his hands into fists. "Why would he block you out if..." he trailed off. _If you're essentially one person. But you don't know that, and I shouldn't tell you._

"I don't understand, either." Fingers nervously played with the edge of his shirt. Alfred couldn't help but think that maybe Arthur not communicating with Sefi was for the best.

—

Alfred and Sefi blended in with the crowds of people on the streets, making their way to the cafe, which had been dubbed the rendezvous point. Alfred couldn't find it in himself to smile as commoners danced around him, merrily laughing. It reminded him-painfully- of Arthur.

Lou remained true to his word- A group of pilots loitered around the cafe, throwing catcalls at women who strutted by and elbowing each other. Sighing, Alfred walked up to the rowdy group, and asked, "Is Lou here?"

Stan was the first to reply, pointing back at the cafe with his thumb. "He went 'round the back. Said he needed to talk to someone."

Nodding, Alfred slipped through the shadowed alleyway, and as he approached the back, soft panting could be heard. He slowed, pressed his back against the wall, and tentatively peered around the corner, where he saw Lou.

Oh, and he was  _definitely_ talking to someone.

Gideon's arms were thrown around Lou's neck, Lou's arms were secured around Gideon's waist, hands untucking his shirt and crawling sneakily up his back, and both were pressed flush together. Gideon's back was turned toward Alfred, so all Alfred could see was Lou, but he still connected the dots, and his eyes almost popped out of his head.

Jolting, Alfred hid back behind the wall, trying to will down the flush that had most definitely lit up his face, and cleared his throat. "Lou? Where are you?"

He heard rustling, and Lou called back, "Uh, I-I'm right here!"

Pretending that he had just rounded the corner, Alfred stated, "Ready to go?" As if he hadn't noticed Gideon, he smiled. "Gideon? I didn't know you would be coming."

Gideon coughed, his hand obviously covering something on his neck. "Eh... yeah. Lou here just finished talking me into it." He elbowed the taller in the gut, trying to smile pleasantly at Alfred.

Rejoining the group, Alfred asked Lou, "Everyone here?"

"Yeah, except Ezer and a few other newbies. Just in case the Egyptians attack again."

"And the transportation we talked about?" Alfred's voice dropped slightly lower. Since there weren't enough planes, and they couldn't just walk to the border, they'd discussed bringing in something big enough to carry 9 pilots.

A ridiculous grin spread across Lou's face. "Modi's on his way with it."

As if Lou had said the magic words, a large farm truck rolled up, creaking with effort. Modi drove the vehicle, waving at the group of pilots. Alfred chuckled as Lou waved back. "Where did you even get this?"

Modi parked the thing and hopped down, landing right in front of Alfred. "Eh, get it, stole it from a farm- details, details."

—

Alfred drove through the desert roads, wishing he had brought a blanket. It could get cold in Israel at night, and the truck had no heat. He could hear the laughter from the 6 pilots riding in the truck bed, and smiled himself.  _They're_ _either gonna die on this mission or get kicked out of 101 Squadron for coming along with me. And, knowing that, they came anyway._

Sefi, beside him, was asleep, hair tickling Alfred's arm. How he could be asleep with all the jarring the car did on the rocky, unpaved road, and the loud, excited shouts from the party animals in the back, Alfred didn't know. Modi was on Sefi's other side, quietly observing the desert, elbow on his propped up knee.

Content with their silence, Alfred tried to listen to the chatter coming from the pilots in the truck bed. He could tell Lou was teasing Gideon about something. Stan was playing his harmonica, and Bob was racociously making up words as he sung along. Alfred heard Modi huff in amusement.

The other two pilots, Coleman Goldstein and Maury Mann, whom Alfred didn't know well yet, were quieter, but their laughs usually joined with the others. Looking in the cracked side-mirrors of the truck, he watched Gideon playfully swing a fist at Lou, who danced around the truck precariously, grinning as if he were inebriated.

Overcome with a sense of pride, just as had happened in the cafe, Alfred vainly tried to hold back a smile.

—

9 June 1948

The sun had just peeked above the hills when they arrived at Rosh Haayin, the place Arthur had crashed- right on the border of what was supposed to be Palestine. There was more grass than desert sand, but there were only ruins of houses and other buildings- destroyed in the war that had touched here.

The rowdy group in the back had quieted down, and some were sleeping. Sefi had taken over driving in the early, dark hours of morning, but Alfred found that he couldn't sleep anyway. Not when they were getting closer to finding Arthur.

That's when he heard Gideon shout, "Stop the truck!"

Sefi slammed on the breaks, waking Modi in the process. Sticking his head out the window, Sefi glanced back at the truck bed. "What?"

Gideon hopped down, Lou right behind him, and pointed north. "Do you see that? It looks like-"

"A plane," Alfred finished, almost pushing Sefi out of the car as he leaned forward, staring at the metal glinting in the sunlight. Lou and Gideon jumped back into the truck bed, and the group drove off the road and toward the wreckage.

As they neared, Alfred quickly hopped out of the truck and raced toward the plane, slowing when the smashed, still-smoking metal touched his feet. It was Arthur's Spitfire, completely destroyed, and Alfred was sure no human could have survived a crash of this magnitude. The cockpit was barely identifiable with the propeller sticking through it, having been bent backward from impact. The wings weren't attached to the body, and the tail was smashed, metal twisted in every which way.

It seemed surreal. Alfred felt his hands shaking at the sight of blood, dried and smeared against the sides of the cockpit and dirt below his feet.  _When they found him, they must have dragged him out. He must have been stabbed by the propeller, or shot by one of the guns from the Egyptian Spitfires._

The group was quiet, most staying in the car. Someone touched Alfred's shoulder. Turning, he saw Modi holding out a tan aviator hat. The symbol of the RAF was imprinted on one side. Blood stained tan on the other side.

A flashback from months ago hit Alfred- as if he were transported back to that moment, he remembered, detail for detail, running into Arthur Kirkland and his Spitfire for the first time. Arthur was staring up at him, all narrowed eyes and angry glares, asking him why he was running from his country, and he had been wearing that hat. The hat that Modi held out for Alfred to take.

"Now we know for certain he's been taken," Modi started. "And by the looks of these tracks-" He pointed to where plane tracks had been imprinted in the dirt. "The Egyptians took off toward one of the most fortified army camps."

"The Arab Legion?"

Modi glanced at Alfred, nodding. "East. And the Arab Legion is based in Transjordan-"

"But they've moved," Sefi called, wind rustling his hair as he stuck his head out the window. Modi and Alfred turned around, watching him as he continued, "They're now in Palestine."

No one questioned him. Maury, still in the truck bed, asked, "How do 9 fighter pilots take a trained army of 10,000?"

Maury's accent hit Alfred, hit him hard, because it sounded so like Arthur's. Trying to calm the pain in his chest, Alfred stared out at where they were headed- where Arthur was being held against his will. Gathering his thoughts, he turned back to his group, most of whom looked uncertain and antsy. "None of you are obliged to be here. Only I am. And if you leave, I won't hold it against you. But, I'll need you to leave your guns."

"Our guns?" Coleman snorted.

"When we get to the border, I'll take Lou and Modi with me, if they stay. The rest of you will make all the noise you can make possible in the truck. You'll be the distraction- shooting at the front lines, setting things on fire- anything you can to lure some of them out and not get your asses blown out of the sky. Lou, Modi, and I will sneak inside, find Arthur, shoot some people, and then get the hell out of there. We'll rendezvous somewhere- I'll figure that out when we scout the land there. And, as underdeveloped as it is, that's my plan."

Alfred was met with silence. Breathing out slowly, he found all number of issues his plan had, and he started to believe some were going to leave, when Gideon said, "I'm in."

Everyone stared at him, some incredulously. His brown eyes only focused on Alfred as he continued. "I never met Arthur. But I would never leave a man behind in enemy hands. So, count me in."

Alfred quelled his rising emotion, and nodded at the young pilot in gratitude. He couldn't help but think,  _Lou, count your blessings. Someone that loyal is hard to find._

Sefi laughed, head still sticking out the window as Alfred's eyes caught his. "I told you I'd come along, no matter what. That won't change now."

Alfred grinned. He'd always have Sefi.

"Alfred, you bastard." Lou was rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "Of course I'm staying! I like Arthur  _almost_  as much as you do."

Modi chuckled, still the only one out of the car and beside the personification of America. "I wouldn't miss this for the world, my friend." His eyes watered as he murmured, only for Alfred's ears, "It's what Eddie and Milton would want, and Ezer, too. And the original 7 stick together, yeah?"

Stan and Bob glanced at each other, smirked, and Stan turned back to Alfred, announcing, "We're in. As long as the angel of death becomes the Squadron logo."

Laughing, Alfred nodded. "I think I can do that."

Coleman shrugged, lighting a cigarette. "It's heroic, and even though I'm probably going to get my ass blown out of the sky-" he grinned at Alfred- "I like the challenge. I'll stick around."

Maury was the last to speak, and sighed, "As stupid as I think your plan is... I want in. He's... he's England, right?" Alfred nodded, smiling as Maury tried to look nonchalant. "I'd do anything for... for my country. Especially the man who  _is_  my country."

Alfred watched them all, trying to remember every detail of this moment, because he knew it would never happen again, and maybe one day, he would tell Arthur of this time. Determination tightened his chest. Sefi whistled, grabbing his attention, and gestured at the seat beside him.

Gripping Arthur's aviator hat, Alfred hopped in the truck, Modi right behind him.

 

 


	21. Light

There it was, looming before Alfred's eyes- the encampment of this war's biggest army. The guard line spanned at least 100 miles north to south- in the night, it looked massive. Alfred felt intimidated.

Maury's head popped up beside his, bodies hidden in the high branches of trees, scouting. "Usually, a prisoner of war would be sent to a camp at their main base, but these are the Arabs we're playin' against. Their rules are different. This entire  _war_ is different." He paused, scanned the camp, and pointed to a tent where two guards stood watch. "That tent is the only one I can see that has guards."

Alfred would have never seen it, and thanked whatever higher power that a British man came along. Attention to little details was what made a good spy: the British had just that. "You think that's where he's being held?"

"I'd bet my bloody socks on it." Maury glanced at Alfred, and continued, "But how do you suppose you get in?"

"You all in the car will be making a distraction. Shooting at the guard line-"

"That'll be sufficient, my ass," Maury interrupted. "You'll need something... more eccentric."

"And what do you have in mind?"

"Fire." The British pilot ran fingers through his hair. "I'll set a section of the camp on fire."

—

Alfred returned to the truck alone, drawing curious glances from the other pilots. Lou, hopping down from the truck bed, confronted him. "Where's Maury?"

"I'll explain in a moment. I need you all to listen." Clearing his throat, Alfred began, "Maury said that this distraction-" he gestured to the truck- "isn't good enough. So, he stayed behind to make another."

"Another distraction?" Modi asked tentatively. "And he's doing this all alone?"

"He's setting part of the camp on fire." Glancing at Coleman, he shrugged. "He snatched your lighter so he could do it."

He received shocked looks. Coleman grumbled about his lack of a good cigarette the past hour. Sefi shook his head, eyes connecting with Alfred's. "I won't condone mass murder-"

"Oh, please," Lou interjected, his voice rising with fury. "They're murdering  _us._ They've been in Tel Aviv, they destroyed Jerusalem, they almost took out Milton Rubenfeld, and they  _murdered_ Eddie Cohen! You didn't have a problem when we were going to be driving by shooting at the guards, did you?"

"Setting fire to a camp and killing unarmed people in their sleep is  _different_ than taking out armed people who are shooting back at us. What if there are more prisoners of war stuck inside, just as Arthur is? What if we kill them?"

Lou tried to reply, but Gideon broke in, effectively silencing the arguing group. "That's a chance we'll have to take." He looked to Alfred uncertainly, but continued, "I trust Alfred."

There was a long pause, and though some seemed disgruntled, they all watched Alfred as he began, "Like I said, Lou and Modi will stick with me, but I'm adding Maury, since he's... spy material." He got a few chuckles from that, and grew more confident. "The rest of you will ride the truck and shoot at the front line. Try to stay out of distance. I want Sefi to drive, since he knows Palestine better than any of us."  _And probably won't shoot anyone if I give him a gun._  Glancing at Sefi, he asked, "We'll break in and out on the far south side. Modi brought a grenade, so that's what we'll use to breach the wall. Once you see the flames, we'll have Arthur and be out in 20 minutes. Can you get us out of there?"

The personification nodded. "But, I don't want to put their lives-" he gestured to the group staying behind- "in danger."

"We'll get as far away from the camp as we can." Pausing, he turned and saw smoke start to rise above the trees kilometers away. The smell was distinguishable."That's Maury. Lou, Modi, let's go."

The two started saying their goodbyes. Lou unstrapped his gun from around his shoulder, dragged Gideon over by his arm, and strapped it on the shorter, murmuring something unintelligible to Alfred. It hit him painfully, as if he had shocked his finger on something-  _humans die so easily. They only have one life. And yet, some are willing to spend it for the sake of another._

_I may never see any of them again. I may have to break Milton's wish._

It was a bittersweet moment, watching them all hug another, and Lou's laughter had never sounded so pleasant to Alfred's ears. He became aware of someone by his side: turning, his eyes locked with Sefi's.

"Be careful, won't you?" Alfred grinned, nudging Sefi's shoulder with his own.

"Of course. But I must warn you." He remained watching the group, and murmured, "There is no more numbness. It's nothing. It has stopped altogether."

Fidgeting, Alfred breathed in sharply, trying to calm his jittering nerves. "You and I both know he can't die." Those words were more of an affirmation to himself than Sefi.

"Yes. But... I'm not sure... what you're going to find in there. Whoever Arthur was before..." he paused, took a breath. "May not be who he is now."

Alfred shook his head. "He's the British Empire. He won't be anything else."  _He can't be anything else._

"Why do they fight for me?" Sefi suddenly asked, voice low. His eyes caught Alfred's. "Why do you fight for me?"

Alfred remembered, when he was sitting in that cafe in America, that he hadn't really  _decided_  to fight. He hadn't thought about it. He just  _knew._ He had always known. Alfred gravitated toward what he was sure was good, and fighting for someone who deserved independence was just that. He remembered first stumbling upon Sefi, or rather, when Sefi had stumbled upon him, and had been confused when Sefi had said he and Arthur were  _good._ Now, he understood. "I fight for you because you deserve to be fought for- because you are good."

As if he were satisfied with that answer, Sefi glanced up at him, smiled softly, and whispered, "Thank you. Good luck, my friend."

—

Creeping through the thick, wild brush that covered most of the landscape of Palestine, Alfred led Lou and Modi, just outside the front south wall of the enemy camp, watching the smoke above grow thicker and thicker, until orange flames lit up a tent, and then another tent, and escalated into a huge fire that lit up the night. Someone screamed, and then another- Alfred turned to the other pilots before it escalated. "Maury should be here any s-"

"Right here," a voice panted quietly, kneeling beside Modi in the tall, dry undergrowth.

Alfred heard more shouting and panicked cries, heard the lap and roar of fire, and spoke quickly. "After Modi throws the grenade, we have a 20 minute window. Stay together, guard your back, and let's make this quick, yeah?"

Bullet shots suddenly rang out, making the four wince- the second distraction had begun. Alfred glanced at Modi, who nodded, hissing,  _"Take cover!"_

He threw the ball-shaped thing, and with a clunk, it hit the wall. Alfred buried his face in the dirt, eyes squeezed shut, and covered his ears. The grenade instantly exploded, shaking the ground, dirt raining everywhere.

Ears ringing, Alfred yelled,  _"Let's go!"_ Everything sounded muffled, but as he jumped through the massive hole in the wall, saw men running around the camp, trying desperately to stifle the raging fire Maury had created, sound rushed through his ears again, and Maury was suddenly grabbing at his arm, tugging him through the hell-like, chaotic camp.

Reminded of the imminent threat to their lives, Alfred glanced back at Lou and Modi, hoping desperately that each time he looked back, they would be behind him, just as they were now. The fire worked well- with hell breaking loose, no one had time to question if the four were enemies.

_"Where's the tent?"_  Alfred shouted over the uproar.

Black smudges already stained Maury's face and clothes as they stopped and wildly looked around. Lou and Modi panted for breath behind them, the fire casting an eerie, soft orange glow to their skin.

"There!" Maury pointed, but as they started to move forward, ominous cracking sounded above them. Sharply whirling his head upward, Alfred saw a blackened, wooden beam falling, and with his strength, bowled Maury out of the way as it crashed down.

Mud splattered everywhere- heat burned into Alfred's skin. Scrambling to his feet and helping the British pilot up, he saw Lou and Modi on the other side of the flaming, burning beam. Everything around was on fire- there was no way they could cross.

_"Just head back!"_  Alfred yelled.

_"But what about you?!"_  Lou almost sounded hysterical.

_"Just go!"_  Maury snapped, grabbing Alfred's arm and trying to lead him away. Alfred, eyes wide in some type of shock, glanced wildly back at the other two, trying to memorize everything about them, because splitting up was like suicide-

Maury tugged frantically at Alfred's shirt collar, interrupting his panicked thoughts. " _Look!"_

They had reached the tent, but the front was completely ablaze, including the entrance. There was always the possibility that this was the wrong place, that Arthur wasn't even here, and all of these thoughts came like a punch to Alfred's face. Maury's eyes were wide, face distraught and hair flying everywhere, and Alfred was sure he looked the same.

_If you want him, you'll fight for him._

With Lou's words ringing in his ears, Alfred roughly grabbed Maury's shoulder and commanded,  _"Run for the wall, and don't look back."_ He didn't bother to see if Maury obeyed, but instead sprinted for the tent, barreling right through the fiery entrance.

The flames stung- it was like a million needles piercing his skin all at once. His eyes watered as he jumped through it, safely on the other side, and hobbled to his feet. Adrenaline kicked in, blocking out the searing pain- all that mattered was finding Arthur. Wildly looking around, heat still lapping at him, Alfred ran through some type of hallway, screaming,  _"Arthur! Arthur Kirkland!"_

He came to some type of split in the plastic-walled hallway. Alfred filed a note to return to later in his mind that the Arab tents for POWs were ridiculously elaborate, and chose the right, continuing to call for Arthur in a raspy, sore voice. A moment came where he felt his heart racing, and he thought,  _I'm gonna die here._

But personifications couldn't die, and he quickly tried to calm himself with that thought. The white plastic tunnels glowed orange, and Alfred could see the blurry images of men running, wooden, makeshift buildings falling, fire devouring, before coming to some type of door. It didn't make sense, until he saw the plastic tunnel had abruptly cut off, forming into a white-bricked room.

The door was locked, and Alfred didn't possess the strength to tear it off its hinges. The window on the door was fogged and seemingly damp, but Alfred could see some type of screen beyond it, something that led to what looked like a large observatory room. Praying that his hand would forgive him, Alfred curled his fingers into a fist, and slammed it into the window.

With a crack, the broken shards fell to the ground, some sticking into Alfred's skin. He hissed in pain, but stuck his arm in further, looking for the knob, the lock, something-

His bleeding hand fell across a smooth doorknob, and twisting the lock, Alfred swung the door open frantically, pulling his arm out from the window and holding it close to his body. He heard a soft noise, and froze in his tracks.

"Arthur? Arthur Kirkland?" There was a white screen blocking his view, and haphazardly, he started feeling along it, beating against it, searching for an opening, when suddenly, a section just fell open- a hidden door. Alfred stumbled in, looked up and found himself surrounded by white, sickening, pure white, and nothing but it.

And Arthur was chained to the wall, face bruised and bloody, chest completely bare and laced with lashes, trembling uncontrollably, murmuring something unintelligible over and over to himself.

Alfred felt his jaw, his lower lip, quivering from some type of sick relief, and fell to his knees in front of Arthur, gently cupping his face. Arthur winced and almost pulled away, but Alfred's fingers traced under his chin, soft, not threatening. "Arthur...  _Arthur."_

Arthur raised his face, revealing the hole that used to hold his left eye, all black, blue, blood red, swollen. The skin around his other eye was blackened, and Alfred could hear, could feel him inhale raggedly. It was horrifying.

Snapping the weak chain around his wrists off, Alfred didn't expect Arthur to slump forward onto him, completely resting all of his weight against him. His bruised face buried into Alfred's shoulder, and Alfred forced himself to hold back tears as Arthur cried,  _"Finally."_

Cradling Arthur's head against his chest, Alfred slipped a hand under his knees, picking him up. He turned to the still-open entrance and walked out through it, walked through the door whose window he had smashed, and found himself back in the plastic tunnel.

He couldn't bring Arthur out the way he had come in- he refused to subject Arthur to more pain. The plastic in the tunnel was flimsy, malleable- Alfred could cut it open. With a strong arm wrapped around Arthur's shoulder, he set the smaller onto his feet so that he could fish for the pocketknife he knew was somewhere on him. The moment fingers clasped against the cool metal handle, Alfred yanked the long thing out and popped open the blade.

Trying to steady his hand, which was shaking like a leaf in a storm, Alfred jammed it through the white, flimsy plastic, and started cutting, when suddenly, hissing noises came from above. Reflexively, Alfred looked up. Some type of gas was released, instantly burning his eyes- some type of trap in case the tunnel was breached as it had just been. It was worse than the burn marks he knew laced his skin, and he cried out, trying not to fall to his knees, trying to keep his eyes open in order to keep cutting.

The pocketknife fell to the floor, forgotten, as Alfred used his good hand to rip at the broken flaps, kicking at it frantically until it finally snapped open. Picking up Arthur, Alfred freed him from his white prison, racing out into the night, urging himself to keep running, to not stop until he saw the wall.

Someone slammed into him, almost sending the two flying to the ground. Alfred steadied himself, clutched Arthur tighter, focused his blurry, burning eyes on the person- a young boy, who looked just as frightened as Alfred felt. They stared at each other: Alfred could make out the emblem of the Arab Legion on his uniform. The boy seemed to recognize Arthur, and Alfred feared he would scream for help, alert everyone that they were escaping-

But the boy simply pushed his shoulder, frantically yelled, "Go! Get him out of here!" And turned, disappearing into the mass hell of confusion.

Alfred couldn't ponder it, why an enemy would allow them to walk out. He wanted to thank him, but he couldn't even move his lips. Boots scuffing against the dirt that had appeared to turn red, Alfred continued to run, hoping his mental compass was correct, that he was running south, that it hadn't reached 20 minutes-

He almost slammed against the wall, skidding to a halt just before the stone appeared in his view, tinted orange from the roaring fire. But the wall was whole- looking to his left, Alfred saw a mass array of stones and broken, burned wood. It was the hole, from the explosion that the grenade had caused.

Glancing down at Arthur, Alfred raced toward the exploded, broken entrance, tripping over rocks and debris and at one point, a body. His foot caught on a brick, and he almost fell to the ground as more pain coursed through him. Biting his lip and tasting blood, he refused to scream, and found himself gripping Arthur tighter as a reminder of what was at stake.

Alfred didn't stop when he cleared the wall. He didn't look back. He ran as fast as he could, eyes desperately searching for a truck, and the worst scenarios played with his mind.  _They left us behind. They were all killed. They can't find us. We're going to die here._

There was a flash of light, almost blinding- Alfred felt his chest clench as a certain truck sped toward them, but everything was blurry, and everything was turning black, and the last thing Alfred remembered was dropping to his knees, a protective grip on Arthur in his arms.

 


	22. Fragments of an Amnesiac

12 June 1948

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The sounds of the monitor faded in and out as Alfred stared at the ceiling blankly. Fragments of memory he tried to recall seemed to drift so close, yet so far, and he blinked heavily.

Someone was suddenly standing above his bedside- that was when Alfred first realized he was in the hospital. He tried to speak, but the nurse cut him off, murmuring, "No, no. Just calm down."

_I am calm,_ Alfred retorted inwardly. She looked at her clipboard, scribbled down something, and then asked, "You remember much?"

Alfred shook his head. The nurse continued, "Neither did the other one. You went to rescue your friend, and almost killed yourself in the process." She gestured to Alfred's arms. He glanced down for the first time and saw the heavy bandages wrapped across his arms, his bare chest, and his legs, but everything had a fuzzy, blurry quality to it.

Playing it off as a drowsy side-effect from the medicine, he rasped, throat sore, "Arthur?"

She sat down on the side of the bed, eyes soft. "Down the hall."

"He's... he's ok?"

"His injuries are healing nicely."

Alfred could instantly tell she was hiding something. Attempting to sit up, his head started to spin- she stood and pushed him gently down against the pillow. "You need rest, Mr. Jones. I'll tell you more when you wake up."

But as much as Alfred wanted to walk out of the room, memories returning to him, his eyes shut.

—

14 June 1948

Sefi was sitting on the side of the bed, lips quirked upward. "Good morning, Alfred."

"Sefi!" It was supposed to be more exclamatory, yet came out as a croak. Alfred winced and tried to clear his throat. "Everyone? Is everyone-"

"Yes, yes. They're all fine." Sefi shot him a fond look. "You did good, my friend."

Trying to shrug, Alfred looked away. "What's... what's happening? What am I missing? How's Arthur?"

The questions became more enthusiastic, and Sefi held up his hands, chuckling, "Slow down! One at a time."

"What have I missed?"

Sefi breathed in, looked out the window. "We are in a truce. It won't last. But, it gives Israel time to regroup." He stopped and smirked at Alfred. "Does it amuse you when you say your own name?"

Alfred let out a soft huff of amusement. "Yeah. It does."

"Lou and Modi wanted to come see you. But only important personnel can visit now."

"Why... why are you... why is everything so blurry?"

Sefi blew out air, as if he weren't sure how to answer. "No one knows. You must have looked into something bright, or had some gas sprayed into your eyes. But, your sight has been slightly impaired." Pausing, he murmured, "Does it burn?"

"Of course not," he lied, attempting a grin. "I'm a personification. It'll go away eventually."

"Whatever you say, Alfred."

"Sefi?"

"What?"

Alfred tried not to look like a pouting child as he whined, "Does this mean I have to wear ugly glasses?"

Laughing, Sefi replied, "If you want to see, yes, you idiot. Here." He held out bland, wire-framed glasses. "They told me if you asked to give you these."

Reaching out, Alfred grabbed the hideous thing and slid it over his nose. It was irritating, to have a frame constantly blocking your view, but he assumed he'd get used to it. The smile faded off of Sefi's face, and he tapped his fingers against the bed, as if he knew what question Alfred had heading his way.  _Just like that nurse_ , Alfred mused,  _He's hiding something._

And Alfred could speculate what that something was. Slowly, not sure if he wanted to know the answer, he asked, "And... and Arthur?"

Sefi bit his lip. "You  _truly_  want to know?"

Without hesitation, Alfred nodded. " _Yes._ "

Standing, Sefi walked toward the door. Alfred anxiously thought he was simply going to walk out without explaining, but instead, he grabbed something beside the door and unfolded it- a wheelchair. Walking it over to Alfred's bedside, Sefi gently reached out and grabbed Alfred's bandaged arm. "They're... doing a test on him right now. We'll be able to observe if we hurry."

_A test?_ Alfred felt his heart rate increase. Ever so painfully, Sefi helped him into the wheelchair. Alfred was like a deadweight, and as embarrassing as it was, the pain was unbearable, so he didn't protest. "Can we... can we at least take the stupid I.V. out?"

Sefi uncertainly glanced at the bag of fluid that attached to Alfred's arm by needle. "No. We'll take it with us."

Alfred didn't argue further. There was a burn that came with sitting up, an excruciating burn that made Alfred wince and lean heavily back in his seat. Sefi wheeled him out, and Alfred observed the bland hallway, eyes catching those of nurses and doctors and patients. One hand fidgeted with his glasses, and the other gripped the arm rest as Sefi opened a door and pushed him through.

They entered into a dark room, the lights purposefully dimmed. There was a glass divider functioning as a place for observation on the patient. Sefi wheeled him up to the glass divider and stopped, coming to stand beside him. Alfred's eyes focused on what was behind the glass- a heavily bandaged figure in a bed.

Arthur was barely recognizable, half of his face covered in bandages, including his left eye. Alfred winced at the memory which hit him- his eye had been gruesomely gouged out. The rest of his body was hidden under the blankets, but Alfred assumed, from what he could remember, Arthur's entire chest was probably stitched up and bandaged.

"Why is he caged in like this?" Alfred asked, not trying to quell the resentment bubbling up and clutching at him.

Sefi looked away and didn't answer. Suddenly, a loud buzz sounded, and someone said over a mic, "Bring him in."

Alfred's eyes grew wide as a door opened from inside Arthur's section of the room, and the personification of France himself walked in, wearing the standard tan IAF uniform.

_What the hell is going on?!_

Arthur stirred, eyes groggily locking with Francis's, and his hoarse voice sounded into the observatory room over some type of intercom. "I have a feeling that I won't like you."

Francis laughed and sat on the side of the bed. "You haven't changed, despite what they said."

Alfred's head snapped up, glaring at Sefi for answers. "Changed? What-"

"Shush. Listen." Sefi gestured toward the two. Alfred tried to focus past the pounding in his head and the burn in his chest.

Francis smacked his lips distastefully, as if he rued the day he learned English. "What do you know about me?"

Arthur remained silent for a few heartbeats. "...Is this a trick question?"

"Non, my friend. An honest question."

"You are the personification of France," Arthur started. "And we've had wars over the centuries. So, I infer we don't like each other." He paused, took a breath. "But we've fought on the same side before, so I mustn't dislike you too much."

Francis chuckled and looked up at the ceiling. "True that is. But you remember nothing distinctly human. What you feel for me is based on history, yes?"

Arthur didn't reply. The two remained silent for a long while, until Arthur reached up and touched the bandages concealing his eye. "What happened to me?"

Francis looked uncertainly behind and caught Alfred's intent, if not blazing, glare. Quickly glancing away from the seemingly enraged American, he looked to the doctor on the other side of the room as if asking if he had clearance to explain. The doctor nodded, slowly. Turning back to the injured personification, Francis murmured, "You know only of wars your country as a whole has participated in. Therefore, you have no recollection of what I'm about to tell you, since you voluntarily rebelled against your own superiors to participate, which is the human side of-"

Scoffing, Arthur retorted, "Oh, please. First of all, I don't have any superiors, and I can bloody well handle anything you dish out."

Alfred couldn't help but grin, although Francis's words were scary, and he didn't understand them at all. Francis laughed and shot back, "Ah, you really haven't changed. But no matter." His features turned grave, and he began, "You are fighting in the Israeli War for Independence. You were taken prisoner and held for quite awhile before Al... er... your colleagues rescued you."

"Al?" Arthur immediately picked up on the slip just like Arthur was bound to do. "Who is Al?"

Francis hesitated, ran a hand through his hair, and turned, eyes locking with Alfred's from behind the glass. Arthur tilted his head, and for the first time in weeks, Alfred was staring directly at the person he loved-

Arthur murmured, "The United States of America?"

Francis nodded, and as well-versed as he was, he had no words as the two, enrapt in each other, stared.

—

Francis soon after was ushered out of the room, and as soon as he was walking into the observatory room with a few doctors by his side, Alfred completely snapped.

"You  _bastard!"_ He screamed, and even though he was injured, Alfred lunged from the seat and at Francis, sending the doctors into clamor as he pinned the older personification against the wall, ripping out the IV from his arm in the process. Voice dropping dangerously low, he hissed, "What the _hell_  happened to him?"

Francis cooly stared back at him. "And 'allo to you too,  _America._ "

"Answer me!" Alfred shouted, grip on Francis's shoulders tightening.

"Stupid American!" Francis spat, "To have not read the signs is foolish! How can you not know?" Gesturing toward Sefi, Francis continued, "You must have noticed their connection. Did you not?"

_So someone else knows about it other than me._ "Of course I did."

"And it faded away, didn't it?" Voice growing louder, Francis shouted, "Didn't it,  _Israel?_ "

Sefi's jaw clenched. The doctors were stunned into silence, because as far as most knew, only Arthur and Francis were personifications. Francis gave a snort of dry amusement. "It faded," he continued, eyes disdainfully watching Alfred, "Because  _England_ was releasing  _Israel._ No more British mandate, no more dominance." His voice was becoming sing-songy, like in a horror story, and it scared the hell out of Alfred. "When countries loose their sovereignty over another, they enter into a period of  _recession._ It usually never escalates past a sick feeling in your stomach, an occasional transfer of feeling to your lost protégé, a night spent drinking away your sorrows..."

Alfred started to put the pieces together as Francis scoffed, "Oh, but this is not like that, you say? You are right. This is  _not_ like that at all." Eyes glinting, he snarked, "Are you surprised, America? Not so great as you think you are, to have not noticed your lover's pain? Or maybe you feel guilt, because you were not strong enough to protect him?" With his last phrase, Alfred felt himself losing control, and his grip became excruciating on Francis's shoulders. But Francis simply continued, smirking, "I've seen this time and time again. Ancient Roma. Germania. The Mongol Empire. The Spanish Empire and his so-called  _Invincible Armada._  Especially Holy Roma... the Germany  _you_  know... they all go through a recession- their human memories fade away, and only history is known to them. Arthur is losing much more than simply  _Israel._ Oh, much, much more. The decades pass just as a title passes: it seems our  _beloved_ British Empire is coming to an end."

It all made sense. Why had Sefi been linked to Arthur? Why had Arthur drunk himself into oblivion, and fought with Alfred the next day?Because he had felt vulnerable, even though Arthur himself didn't know why. An Empire was collapsing, bringing his memories down with it.

Francis had stalled long enough. A doctor jammed a needle into Alfred's arm, and he fell.

—

"I believe I should apologize."

Alfred was back in his hospital room, trying desperately to get comfortable when Francis walked in, shutting the door quietly behind him. Alfred tried to glare, but miserably failed, muttering, "I'm sorry, too. For shovin' you into the wall and stuff."

Francis simply gave a light hum of amusement and sat down on the bed. "So strong, even when injured! I must ask, how do you channel your inner passion?"

The man looked like a child in a candy shop as he eagerly watched Alfred. It was a striking contrast to the almost malicious, hysterical way he'd been talking before, but Alfred decided that Francis only acted that way under pressure. Sighing, he asked, "Tell me what I can do. For... for Arthur. Please."

There was a soft glint in France's eyes as he murmured, "I believe I left one part out during my monologue. They can heal. They always remember, in time. It might be awhile. For Roma..." France looked away, almost reminiscently. "Roma was a divided Empire. And he died a broken, memory-wiped man. But Arthur is different. England is not divided."

Hope, for some reason, burned his eyes as well as his heart, and Alfred felt himself trying to discreetly rub away the wetness. "Finally, good news. I'm past overdue," He huffed, clenching his jaw.

"There is one problem you may run into. As you spend time with Arthur, and he regains memory- it will be traumatic. Remembering torture is... never a pleasant thing. He'll probably be a victim of PTSD until well after this war is over."

"Francis," Alfred whispered, not understanding why his voice had dropped so low, but nonetheless, it caught Francis's attention. "I... I love him. It just happened, when I was least expecting it. Who knows, maybe I always have. But... I know this sounds crazy... I would bend over backwards for him. When we... when we fought, a couple days before he crashed, he asked me to never leave him. And I'd never felt guilty about the Revolution before that. It was always Arthur's fault. But... when we had that fight... I felt...  _so guilty."_

Francis chuckled and stood. "I always knew, silly American. Ah, young love. The lifeblood of Paris herself."

"And here I thought you were male."

—

16 June 1948

The morning Alfred was allowed to travel around the hospital by wheelchair, he maneuvered the pesky thing by himself to Arthur's room. It would be the first time he'd been inside for two days, and he hoped he wouldn't get evicted. Francis had gone home- he had his own problems to deal with. Now that Alfred knew, he could help Arthur, and he intended on doing exactly that.

Opening the door tentatively, Alfred wheeled inside, spotting that the coast was clear. His back still ached and his head pounded like hell, but it was all worth it when he saw Arthur, awake and avidly reading something that looked suspiciously like a history book in his enclosed habitat. He didn't realize Alfred had entered and had rolled up to the glass divider, but Alfred was content to just sit there and watch him, quietly.

Maybe an hour passed. Arthur, by chance, set down his book on his lap, and sat up in his bed, when his un-bandaged eye, wide with surprise, caught Alfred's. Unsure of what to do, Alfred hesitantly raised a hand a waved, a small smile on his face.

He wasn't sure if Arthur had seen his outburst the days before. Maybe he was afraid of Alfred and his brute strength, or maybe, since he only had memories of pure, unadulterated history, Arthur hated him. But what he did next surprised Alfred.

Arthur waved back, a soft smile on his face, too.

—

25 June 1948

The days were passing by monotonously, and that needed to change, was Alfred's reasoning, as he and Lou raced down the corridor in wheelchairs, Gideon chasing after them and yelling, causing the biggest ruckus the hospital had ever experienced. Especially when Lou shouted obscenities. Of course, Alfred had become a skilled "driver," and was practically miles ahead of him, when he decided to take a short detour.

Arthur's room was unnaturally bright this afternoon- as Alfred wheeled himself inside, he noticed the personification, for the first time, was on his feet, being supported by a nurse as she walked him to the window that must have been newly installed.

Alfred stopped at the glass divider, still as close as he could get to Arthur. He'd fought with the doctors, even tried his skills in speaking, but they were persistent bastards, and when Arthur was done healing from his torture-inflicted wounds,  _that_  was when Alfred was allowed to speak with him.

It was infuriating, to be so close, but with a barrier in between that kept them from speaking. Every afternoon, Alfred would come in and watch Arthur from behind glass, but it wasn't the same as speaking with him. Alfred thought he would go insane from the torture.

His movement caught Arthur's eye, still so attentive even though one side of his head was completely bandaged. Turning slightly, Arthur caught his eyes, and his face lit up, like it always did when he saw Alfred. He eagerly tapped the nurse's shoulder and pointed to Alfred, asking the nurse something, something Alfred couldn't hear, separated by a soundproof divide.

The nurse didn't look too sure. But she also looked young, and Arthur could easily charm anyone. And that he did. The nurse helped him over to the glass, right in front of Alfred, and Alfred could catch her lips moving, probably saying something like, "This is as far as I'll go!" But it didn't matter, because Arthur was beaming at him, and his lips were moving. As bad as Alfred was at reading lips, he could tell instantly what he had said:  _I know you._

Alfred forgot all about winning his game with Lou. He placed his palm on the glass, yearning for some sort of physical contact, even though it was impossible. Arthur lifted his hand to the glass, pressing where Alfred's hand was, and Alfred would be damned if Arthur couldn't disarm him with a single, hopeful smile.

_I'll stay with you. Always._

 


	23. Trust

29 June, 1948

Alfred didn't know what to say. What did you say to someone who couldn't remember? Hey, I loved you before I let you get tortured? That just wouldn't cut it. Tapping his fingers nervously against the arm rests of his wheelchair, the later of which had become his greatest accomplice as of late, Alfred was wheeled out by a nurse, who had told him it was time to talk to Arthur.

He was nervous. Of course he was nervous.  _Oh my God, I really_ am  _nervous._

The door was pushed open, and Alfred, instead of stopping at the divider like usual, was pushed into another hallway, and was left alone at the final door, the one that led him to Arthur. With a deep breath, he pushed open the door and wheeled himself in, looking around the room, toward the doctors observing on the other side of the glass. They nodded, and Alfred continued on to the bed.

Arthur was sleeping, arms relaxed by his sides, and his eye was still bandaged. His skin no longer was bruised. Alfred came up to his bedside, unsure of how to wake him, unsure if he were allowed to touch him, but did so anyway. His hand reached out and touched Arthur's arm, then slid down and gently held his petite hand.

Stirring at the touch, Arthur blinked, eye focusing on Alfred. He instantly lit up, hand tightly grasping Alfred's, and smiling, he whispered, "I've been wanting to talk to you for days."

Alfred laughed, sliding a little closer. "Me, too. I haven't seen you for a long time, Iggs." The term of endearment slipped out before Alfred could catch it, and he flushed.

Arthur bit the knuckle of his finger, trying not to laugh. "You're cute, Mr. United States." Sticking out his tongue cheekily, Arthur playfully added, "No wonder I wanted to keep you."

Sure that his face was on fire from embarrassment, Alfred pondered why Arthur was acting so outgoing and flirtatious. It was startling, but... nice, Alfred decided. "You wouldn't remember, but we actually fought about that before the day..." he trailed off, and then finished, "The day you left."

"Oh, I'm sure it was dramatic," Arthur supplied, grinning. It was almost as if he wouldn't allow Alfred to be negative.

Alfred couldn't help but shoot back, "You always were." His lips quirked upward. "But you're never like this."

"This?" Arthur questioned, head tilting.

"So... outgoing. Bubbly. It's... weird."

"Mm, I must be such a boring fellow. No wonder you wanted to leave me." Arthur closed his eyes and rested back on the pillow, still smiling contentedly. "What was it like, America?"

"The Revolutionary War?"

"Not the History, I know that already. What was the separation like?"

Alfred would have felt uneasy if he weren't talking with  _this_ Arthur. He murmured, "It was... sad. We didn't talk for maybe a hundred years after that." Arthur was watching him, and their gaze never faltered. "But, you came around eventually. Granted, we fight almost all the time. But..."  _Lately, you've been hugging me, and you've kissed me once, and I hold you when I wake up in the morning, and I think I love you._

Arthur hummed, "I'm not sure if I want to remember that." As an afterthought, he added, "Have you always been in a wheelchair?"

"Hell no!" Alfred defended himself. "I'm not an old man like you."

Arthur's happy expression started to fade, and so did Alfred's. Arthur bit his lip, and murmured uncertainly, "Was... was it because of me?"

"No."

"France... said I was abducted. And I was saved by you. So it was my fault."

Alfred gripped his hand tighter. "If it was anyone's fault, it was mine."

Arthur watched him, but neither spoke for awhile. Eyes half-lidded, Arthur murmured, "Why did I forget, America?"

 _Shit. What do I say?_ "You're..." he paused, glancing back at the doctors. One was shaking his head. "It's just a side-effect of what happened," he lied.

Being injured and bed-ridden didn't hinder Arthur's ability to see through liars. He tilted his head, a curious look on his face, but didn't voice his concern.

—

Wheeled out of the room by a nurse, Alfred was confronted with doctors, all of whom had a straight face. One said, "Excellent job, Alfred. May I talk to you in confidence?"

Nodding, Alfred maneuvered the wheelchair to the side, looking up at the doctor, who began, "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Alfred. But you mustn't let the British Empire know why he is amnestic. We wouldn't want him to know he's starting to deteriorate, now, would we?" He let out a chuckle, and gave Alfred a convincing smile.

"Uh... sure."

The doctor clapped him over the shoulder. "I'm glad you understand."

It was weird as the nurse wheeled him back to his room. Something was fishy. Alfred tilted his head back and glanced back at her, but she didn't look down. She left him alone in his hospital room, and he thought he heard a "click" as she left. Grasping the doorknob, he pulled slightly- the door was locked.

_Something isn't right._

—

30 June, 1948

Arthur had a death-grip on the blankets as Alfred entered his room, conscious of all the stares on his back from hawk-eyed doctors observing. He looked pale and nervous, and worried, Alfred stated, "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I... I think I did," Arthur muttered, a far away look in his eye. "I remembered something. Many somethings."

"What?" Alfred asked, a little more enthusiastically than he should have.

"It was about you." Arthur swallowed and looked away. "But, you were just a child. This was roughly in the 1700's, when I was fighting France." A smirk made its way on Arthur's face, and Alfred sighed inwardly with relief. "I absolutely crushed him. But..." his expression changed from smug to confused. "You were fighting with me."

"What? As a child?" Alfred laughed. "I suppose I was pretty badass back then, anyway..."

"No, no. It was you... they way you look now. But you were... human, from what I remember... fighting in the British Army."

Alfred's brow wrinkled in disbelief, eyebrows raising skeptically. "I never fought in the British Army. You wouldn't let me, even when I was old enough. And... I've always been a personification."

"I know. It must have been an uncanny look-a-like." Arthur smiled to himself. "Oh, I loathed him at first, because he was arrogant and cocky and bloody  _irritating._ "

"What was this human's name?" Alfred wasn't sure if he liked Arthur being fond of a human, even if it was so long ago.

Glancing up with a sly expression, Arthur murmured, "Al. His name was Al."

"That  _is_ uncanny."

"I remember giving you those toy soldiers. Back in the 1650's. We played with them every time I visited."

Alfred leaned back in his wheelchair, fond memories of his childhood washing over him. "You remember that time I streaked naked across the field because I didn't want to take a bath?"

Arthur huffed, covering his face with his hands. "Dear God, yes. You were such a wild child. Teenage me couldn't keep up with you."

"And that time we both streaked naked to jump in Mr. Elton's lake?"

Doubled over, Arthur's eyes were squeezed together as he burst out laughing. Alfred joined in, forgetting about all of his problems for one, beautiful moment. Arthur tried to pant out, his voice high and cracking as he continued to laugh, "That git started shooting at us, too!"

"I know! And it was freezing by the time we got back to the cabin. Who's idea was that?"

"I think it was mine," Arthur admitted, and that triggered another session of loud, uncontrollable laughter. The doctors were probably pissed that Alfred was dwelling on old memories rather than trying to persuade Arthur to remember the more recent. But Alfred didn't care. Wiping his eyes, he finally calmed, watching as Arthur relaxed back onto his pillow, sighing out, a grin spread across his face. "It's going to be sad when I remember the Revolutionary War."

"Yeah," Alfred murmured. "It is."

—

There was a knock on Alfred's door while he was sleeping. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and sat up.  _Who the hell is trying to talk to me at midnight?_  "Come in."

It was the same doctor that had confronted Alfred the first day he had talked to Arthur.  _The weird one, who didn't want me to tell Arthur why he was amnestic._ "Hello, Alfred. Apologies about the time. I must discuss something with you."

He didn't look pleasant, and loitered near the door. Alfred didn't like the mood surfacing around them. Hostilely, he muttered, "Is this about Arthur?"

"The British Empire. And his influx of memories."

"And?"

He smiled, but it wasn't friendly. "You remain bitter toward the British Empire, like I do. Don't you?"

 _He'll tell me if I play along._ "Of course," Alfred lied, remaining straight-faced.

"Ah, good. Otherwise, this would have been much harder." He paused, glanced around the room suspiciously, and came closer. "You and I both know that the British Empire is cruel. Though he was merely a child when he started to develop into an Empire, he continued to absorb land, until he became what he is today- the forerunner of the nations. The most powerful, the one who holds most sway. But...  _this..._ this is like an answered prayer." He smirked. "He's forgotten...  _and_ he's falling. You must know the next superpower will be yourself," he tempted. "America will be the forerunner. The British Empire that so many loath will be nothing but dust... if we continue to block his memories of becoming such. Do you understand?"

Alfred was appalled. His first instinct was to punch the doctor and send him flying out the window, but, the temptation of being first... it had always haunted Alfred all too closely.  _I never noticed the British Empire was deteriorating until Francis pointed it out. I knew I was becoming greater, but not great enough to surpass Arthur. Until... now. If we simply block his memories of becoming the Empire he became... when he wakes up... he won't even realize he ever was anything but England._

"How does it work?"

Seemingly pleased Alfred was conceding, the doctor explained, "We simply re-route his memories of becoming an Empire into the long-term memory of his brain. It's advanced research. But there's a certain drug... that only the governments of the world are aware of. We've had certain means to attain this  _m_ _edicine, this_  'Histone deacetylase inhibitor.' The drug interferes with how the brain cells record memories. Of course, it hasn't been tested on anyone. But our patient isn't just  _anyone,_ now. Is he?"

Alfred stared, dumbfounded at how this leaked information had been acquired. Any doubt he had before was raised completely to the surface- it sounded essentially like  _torture._ Playing along was something Alfred was good at. Playing along with this? It was almost unbearable as he gritted out, "What do you want me to do?"

With a sadistic smirk, as if he believed he had caught Alfred in his tangled web, the doctor replied, "Simply keep him busy on the old memories. Memories before he became an Empire. Memories before he conquered Palestine, the *British Raj, Pakistan, Australia, New Zealand... and on. In the morning, after you leave, we'll administer the first dose."

 _How corrupt has the world become? You can't undo the things Arthur has done by wiping his memory of his Empire. The world will always remember, even if he doesn't. So... that means this is all some type of twisted revenge plot. Because the British Empire had control of Palestine. And even though Arthur gave them up, let Israel and Palestine have their independence... it's not enough? Just as courageous as humans can be, they can also be undeniably, ruthlessly cruel._ "Understood."

As the doctor walked out, he foolishly forgot to lock the door.

—

Alfred had only stood and walked around once or twice in his stay at the hospital. As he sat on the edge of his bed in the young, dark hours of morning, plotting his second escape with Arthur, he realized he wasn't even sure if he could carry Arthur if he needed to. Both were strong, but both were injured, and although Arthur had one of the fastest healing rates Alfred had even witnessed, he was still weak.

And there was no telling Arthur would believe him, anyway. There was no telling he'd be able to get into Arthur's room, let alone sneak out of his own without being seen.

Of course, Alfred did it, anyway.

His legs were unsteady. He made sure to hug the wall, just in case- and the glasses didn't help. The floor looked like it was coming out at him rather than staying dormant. Luckily and miraculously, no doctors strolled the halls- then again, who was up at 3 in the morning? The woman at the round accounting desk was the only one Alfred had to sneak past, and that wasn't hard at all, seeing as how her head was down on the desk, eyes closed.

He approached Arthur's room and snuck in, quietly closing the door behind him. He skirted around the glass and into the hallway, confronting the door that stood between him and Arthur.

The sense of deja vu hit him- not long ago, he'd stood at a door like this, and Arthur had been behind it. Although, this time, Alfred didn't want to jeopardize his mission by smashing glass. Instead, he took off his distasteful wire-rimmed glasses, and resourcefully snapped the padding on the end, leaving a thin wire which he slid in the keyhole.

He'd only picked a lock once- as many dramatic escapes he'd executed over the years, this one had to be the stupidest.

Starting to become desperate after too many attempts of opening the door while trying to be gentle with the doorknob, he jammed the wire in completely, and roughly turned the rusty-gold knob. The door suddenly opened, and Alfred spared a moment to pump a fist in the air.

Arthur had been in a light sleep, and woke easily when he heard the door creak open and footsteps in the room. Sitting up slightly, he spotted Alfred, and trying to conceal a yawn, he murmured, "Don't take me wrong, I'm glad to see you... but why so early?"

The first thing Alfred noticed was that the bandages covering his eye was gone, and his two eyes blinked- and he looked beautiful. Alfred couldn't help but murmur, "Your eyes..."

Self-consciously, Arthur put his hand over the previously bandaged one. "They took the bandages off before I went to sleep. It's... it's blue instead of green. I'm sure it looks hideous."

Alfred walked closer, reminding himself he didn't have time for this, but asked anyway, "Yeah, right,  _I'm sure_ it looks hideous. Let me see."

Lowering his hand, Arthur revealed his grown-back eye, and sure enough, it was blue. But it wasn't ugly. It was almost charming and alluring. "They... they said it would change green over time. When a baby is born, their eyes are always blue. They said since the eye was new, it would have to go through the process change." He laughed softly. "I'm not sure why that applies to personifications."

Alfred shook his head. "It really doesn't look bad, Arthur."

Smiling, Arthur ran fingers through his own hair, looking away. "...Thank you. So... you're here because...?"

"I don't have time to sit in here and explain. Long story short, you're an Empire."

He looked shocked for a moment, eyes wide, and then he chuckled. "Of course I am!" Puffing out his chest comically, he grinned. Alfred had to hold back a laugh.

"But the doctors are trying to change that. You need to come with me. Right now."

His grin morphed into a frown, and Alfred watched as he gripped the bedsheets. "...Why? How do... how do I know you're not lying?" Arthur looked scared, looked vulnerable, as he stared at Alfred with those large eyes, and Alfred, summoning all his courage, decided the only way to convince Arthur he was honest was to  _show_ him.

Climbing onto the bed on hands and knees, Alfred lowered his head to Arthur's, whose breath hitched. Arthur's breath was warm on his cheek, his eyes dropping, half-lidded, and their noses brushed sensually. Alfred briefly wondered if Arthur's heart was beating as fast as his, and, taking Arthur's hands in his, Alfred gently pressed his lips against Arthur's. And although Arthur probably didn't even know yet about the obvious sexual tension between them, he kissed Alfred back, hands loosening from Alfred's grip and sliding up his shoulders, running up the back of his neck and through Alfred's hair, and Alfred felt his breath hitch just as Arthur's had previously.

They broke apart slowly, still gravitating towards each other, noses still touching. Hoping that action was convincing enough, Alfred touched Arthur's neck, sliding up to his cheek and cupping it. Arthur shivered, but didn't pull away, eyes closed. Alfred whispered, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The British Raj is just a term for India when it was British-controlled.
> 
> I bet you all are wondering who that human soldier was in the late 1700's, early 1800's, that Arthur could have sworn was Alfred. Well, that's my next story! It centers around the Battle of Blenheim.


	24. Changed

Walking in the breezy night, in the middle of tall, wild brush, which was in the middle of nowhere, had not been the well-thought out part of Alfred's plan. Luckily, Alfred had found a storage area of shirts and pants (and miraculously, his washed bomber jacket) back in the hospital, and although Arthur's was too big on him and Alfred's too small, it was better than hospital nightgowns.

Arthur leaned heavily against Alfred, and Alfred leaned just as heavily back on Arthur. In a sense, they supported each other. In another sense, Alfred was feeling sick to his stomach, and Arthur was doing most of the supporting.

Arthur could sense something was wrong. "Alfred? Shall we rest for awhile?"

Of course, he still had a copious amount of pride. And a lot of testosterone. "I'm fine. Are you ok?"

Arthur's hand tightened around his waist. "As long as you are."

Suddenly aware that Arthur had called him "Alfred" for the first time since his amnesia, Alfred tried to suppress a smile despite the nauseous feeling in his stomach. "I'll answer your questions now."

"Am I the  _biggest_ Empire, or am I just one among many?"

Laughing, Alfred shook his head. "Of course you'd ask that. For a century, yes. You've been dominant."

"I infer now... that I am not." Shadows accented Arthur's face as he stared back at Alfred, unreadable. "I am no longer an Empire."

"Not the one you once were. You let go of many colonies after World War II. Including this place."

Arthur didn't reply. They walked in silence for a long while, and as the sun started to rise behind them, Alfred murmured, "Let's stop here for a moment."

Arthur complied, sitting on the sandy dirt, hidden by the wild overgrowth that rose around the particular clearing. Alfred huffed as he sat beside him, trying to relieve the nauseous feeling as he sighed, "Have you remembered anything?"

Taking Alfred off-guard, Arthur leaned his head on Alfred's shoulder. "You just suddenly got so  _tall._ When I left, you were just a child. Coming back..." He shook his head, diverting from his memories and focusing on the present. "I sensed you were lying in the hospital. When you said that the reason I forgot was just because of my abduction."

"I know."

"Tell me. Tell me why I forgot."

Alfred wanted to choose his words carefully. "You were a great Empire before this recent war... World War II. But, you took a drastic hit during it, and you've been on the decline ever since. When an Empire falls, the personification endures some weird recession of the memory. So... you were going to loose your memory sooner or later, even if you hadn't been abducted. That just made things worse."

Arthur looked small, and he shivered, a hand coming around Alfred's waist to secure himself. Still, he gave a shaky smile up at the American. "In that case, why did we leave the hospital?"

"I swear, I'll never go to a hospital again. They were trying..." He trailed off. Arthur waited patiently, eyes closing, as Alfred continued, "Trying to conduct an experiment with some type of smuggled drug. A drug that can make people forget permanently."

"Why would they choose me?" Arthur asked, and as innocent as he looked, Alfred knew when he remembered just what he had done during his Empire, he would understand why some humans were bitter toward him. There were some questions he could answer, and some that Arthur would eventually figure out for himself.

Shuffling his jacket off, Alfred wrapped it around Arthur's shoulders. "You're tough as nails, you know that?"

"So are you," Arthur yawned, looking pleased as he nodded off. Alfred stroked his cheek, but just as he himself was starting to fall asleep, a small voice asked, "Why did you kiss me, Al?"

"You'll see, eventually," was the only thing Alfred could think of.  _You'll have to remember this time we've spent together. Then you'll understand._

He wasn't sure what time it was when he was jostled out of his sleep. Groggily running a hand down his face, Alfred realized the warm body that had fallen asleep beside him was no longer pressed against him, and even though the sun should have started to rise, rain clouds cast their certain gloomy darkness. Alfred could barely make out Arthur, staring at him, eyes wide and horrified.

It was enough to snap Alfred out of his sleep-induced daze. Scrambling onto his knees and cursing the absence of those glasses he loathed, Alfred tried to search Arthur's face, but what he found scared him. Tears had risen in Arthur's eyes, his posture was ragged, defensive, and everything screamed at Alfred  _betrayal._

He'd remembered, Alfred realized. The Revolutionary War was over, and Arthur was reliving a nightmare all over again.

_What do I do? How do I comfort him? Will he run, just like he used to?_

Arthur suddenly bolted, into the brush, and Alfred raced after him, easily overtaking him. He grabbed Arthur around the waist and brought him backwards, turning the Brit around to face him. Arthur was sobbing, hitting Alfred's chest as he struggled to free himself, screaming, " _Let me go! I hate you! I hate you!"_

He didn't mean it. He never did, Alfred reminded himself. Deja vu smacked him in the face as Arthur collapsed against Alfred's chest, wailing his agony, hands gripping the American's arms, and Alfred held him, rocked him back and forth, pressed his face into Arthur's hair. Tears and saliva wetted Alfred's neck, an uncomfortable sensation as Arthur mouthed at his shoulder, trying to find purchase in something, anything.

Rain started to fall. Words from Milton's letter struck Alfred:  _Irony is a bitch. Of course rain would fall now._  Arthur's breath was still ragged, but he could form words, and a simple, miserable, "I'm sorry," left his lips.

Alfred wondered how  _long_ he had wanted to hear that. He'd sat in his bed, hundreds of years after leaving Arthur in the rain, formulating ideas of how Arthur would approach him, apologize for constricting Alfred's freedom, for making Alfred's life a living hell, and then Alfred would forgive him, because Alfred was good at playing the victim.

He had been wrong. So, terribly wrong. He didn't deserve an apology from Arthur. He didn't deserve anything. Arthur had been hurting, and all Alfred had cared about was himself. Alfred was not the victim anymore than Arthur was. He was not a hero. He thought he'd saved Arthur, but he never had. To save Arthur was to free him from the misery of Alfred's betrayal.

Rough, large fingers gently found their way under Arthur's chin, tilting his face up. Tears mixed with rain ran down his cheeks- eyes, both of which were now suddenly, distinctly green, searched Alfred's, lower lip and jaw trembling, petite fingers twisting in his shirt. Alfred was tired of hurting him. Alfred wanted to save him, truly this time.

"I'm sorry, too, sweetheart," he whispered, fingers carding through his soaked blonde hair. He wanted to say more. He wanted to take Arthur home and never let him go. He wanted Arthur.

Arthur lifted a hand to his mouth, a choked sob resounding from his lips, and suddenly, he was throwing his arms around Alfred's neck, crying, "I love you. I love you."

Alfred wasn't sure if anything could define bittersweet more than this, as his heart broke into millions of shards and was suddenly placed back together by one person. His voice shook as he pressed his lips against Arthur's ear, whispering, "I love you, too."

—

It wouldn't be the same, Alfred had reminded himself, as they reached Tel Aviv. It would all change.

He was right.

Neither were allowed back in the Israeli Air Force: Arthur was, quote, "ruined," and Alfred, on top of having a sight impairment, had almost led 9 pilots to their deaths. It was the most painful thing, Alfred decided, to sacrifice one love for another. But he didn't regret it. He never would regret it.

They decided to stay, because Arthur was determined to help when he finally remembered, and told Alfred that he didn't want to abandon the people he had grown to love. Alfred couldn't and wouldn't deny him anything, so he agreed, casting his bitterness aside.

The truce was broke. Lou Lenart led a mission that turned into a disaster. Before they could reach their destined attack point, Lou and his other pilots were low on fuel, and decided to abort their mission. That was when Lou saw ships unloading goods to Egypt, and directed his pilots to attack.

Bob Vickman was killed, shot down by Egyptian gunners, and his body was never found. Stan Andrews was distraught- if his plane hadn't malfunctioned on take off, he would have been on the same mission. He screamed at Lou, screamed that he would have landed and saved his friend, screamed that Lou was a coward for leaving. On return, Lou broke down into Gideon's shoulder, because he knew what would happen.

Quickly, Lou was forcibly transferred out of the 101 Squadron. He didn't have a chance to say goodbye, and he'd never fly for the 101 Squadron again. Modi resumed full command over the squadron. Coleman Goldstein transferred out. Gideon didn't speak about it. He never spoke about Lou again.

Sefi and Alfred started to fight. Alfred lashed out at him for what his people had tried to do to Arthur. Sefi vehemently denied it, and one day, their argument grew so out of hand that Alfred slapped him across the face. Sefi punched him back, blessing Alfred with a black eye, and then left, and he didn't come back. Alfred moved back into his room, and Arthur slept in his own, alone.

Israel started to win. The Air Force grew large, holding dominance in the sky. But inside the 101 Squadron was cracking.

The month of August was when Arthur finally gained his memory back, and woke up in the middle of the night, screaming in terror. Alfred grabbed his gun instinctively and jumped out of his bed, almost breaking down Arthur's door, but the sight only made Arthur shriek louder and fall off the bed, curling up onto the floor. Alfred dropped the gun and tried to hold him, but he thrashed and yelled out and kicked like he was mad, and Alfred had never been more frightened in his life. The sun started to rise, light from the window casting a yellow glow onto the floor, and Alfred cried, "Look, Arthur. The sun's up. Look at the sun. It's going to be ok. The sun's up."

Arthur went limp, eyes shut. Alfred sobbed, something he hadn't done in a very, very long time, and his tears splashed on Arthur's cheek. He wasn't sure why he was still rocking Arthur back and forth. But he did remember whispering, " _I can't do this anymore. I can't take it."_

Alfred wasn't sure what he meant by that. But things started to change. Alfred didn't return to his room at night: he slept with Arthur, who could now remember everything. Sometimes, they didn't sleep, because Arthur was afraid to. He would curl into Alfred's chest and softly sing, just to keep them both awake, and Alfred would stroke his cheek or his hair or his arm. One night, Arthur ran petite fingers over Alfred's dog tags, a thing he hadn't thought about in ever, and Arthur whispered the Hebrew word. He told Alfred it meant "America."

October rolled around. Alfred and Arthur had met with Modi and Ezer in the old cafe, right before a mission. Modi had laughed, standing with Arthur in line for drinks, and Alfred had watched as the two joked about something, unknowing it would be his last time seeing Modi.

Modi was killed on return. His plane malfunctioned, and he crashed into the runway. He left behind a pregnant wife, and the title of commander.

Maury Mann was next in line for the position, but was skipped over because of his fiery aggression in the air. Furious, Maury left the Squadron, and Arthur would often ask Alfred about the British pilot's loyalty during his rescue mission. Arthur often asked about everything concerning his rescue mission, and then would promptly burst into tears about how he didn't deserve such loyalty. Alfred always told him he did.

There was a night that Arthur hadn't wanted to fall asleep but did so anyway. Alfred ran idle fingers up and down his bare arm, eyes watching the stars through the window. He still wasn't an astronomer, but whispered, "I see your star, Modi."

Shortly after, Stan Andrews, who had sworn he wouldn't leave Israel until he found the body of Bob Vickman, remained true to his word. He was shot down from the sky, and survived the crash, only to be shot and mutilated by Egyptian soldiers once he and his fellow pilots were grounded. It was a bittersweet ending to a friendship, Arthur murmured to Alfred, clutching his hand tightly. Arthur had never met Stan nor Bob, but had heard of their courage from Alfred.

October was a month Alfred had never been so happy to see leave. He remembered dancing giddily around Arthur the first day of November, kissing his face everywhere he could reach, and he remembered Arthur's laugh, his touch. He'd never looked more beautiful to Alfred. They'd fallen into bed shortly after that.

December came, and the war was slowly coming to an end. Israel was the obvious victor, and Alfred couldn't help but feel pride for Sefi, that he had endured through the odds. Sometimes, he would spend hours wondering where he was, what he was doing, how he was doing, and Arthur would wonder, too.

That brought attention to another problem on the horizon. With the war ending, Alfred and Arthur would have to return to the countries they had each betrayed. Of course, they wouldn't be denied access back into their countries: after all, they  _were_ the countries. But as much as Alfred anticipated returning to his country, to his farm house in the middle of nowhere, he realized he'd be splitting from someone that he had no intention from leaving.

Arthur was afraid. He still had nightmares. What would he do if Alfred weren't there in the morning? Alfred tried to calm him about the problem, promising they would figure out a solution. He still didn't have one.

On the 6th of January, 1949, the Arab-Israeli war came to an official end. For the first time in a year, Alfred picked up the phone and called his boss.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"This is Alfred F. Jones. May I talk to President Truman?"

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Truman's asleep. May I take a message?"

There was rustling over the phone, an irritated voice, and then, the sound of his president's voice came. "I was waiting for a call."

"I missed you too," Alfred retorted, a grin spreading over his face. It'd been too long.

"The war has ended, I hear?"

"Yeah."

Truman paused. "You're coming home, I presume?"

"I... needed to talk to you about that."

He chuckled. "This is about England, isn't it?"

"How did you know?"

"Prime Minister Attlee. We both assumed you two met up and joined together."

Alfred spluttered non-sensical excuses over the phone. Truman laughed.

"I'm glad, America," He interrupted. "Hold true to that Special Relationship."

Glancing over at Arthur, who was busy dancing in the kitchen while making some type of breakfast, Alfred smiled, murmuring, "Yes, sir."

"Now, about England?"

"I...he...it's been hard," he tried, keeping his voice low so Arthur wouldn't overhear. "I need him."

"Ah. So you want to stay together."

"Yes, sir."

"Didn't I tell you to call me Harry?"

Alfred chuckled. "Didn't I say no?"

"I suppose you did. Alfred, my boy, it sounds like you've grown up quite a lot, haven't you?"

"I'm not sure about that." Alfred glanced over into the kitchen again. This time, Arthur was trying to put out a fire in a pan frantically. Covering his mouth to suppress laughter, he turned around and waited for Truman's advice.

"Let me talk to Attlee. Call me back tomorrow."

"Even if the secretary tells me you're away?"

"Protocol, Alfred. You know that."

"Thank you. Harry," Alfred added for good measure. He hung up just as slim, petite arms snuck around his waist, and Arthur murmured from behind him, "Was that Mr. Truman?"

Turning, Alfred lifted the shorter into his arms, and Arthur wrapped his legs around his waist, arms over Alfred's shoulders. "Yeah."

"Are you... going home?" He asked uncertainly, eyes flitting to the side. Alfred smiled up at him.

"Yeah. And you'll come with me."

Arthur brightened, and then his face fell with reality. "Alfred... I belong in England. I... have to talk to the royal family, I have to talk to Attlee, I have to attend my regular tea visits with Winston..."

"But you didn't let me finish." Alfred was walking, walking into their bedroom, and laid Arthur down on the bed, crawling on top of him and leaning down close. "I'll go to England, too. We'll switch off, whenever you want."

Green eyes brimmed with happy tears, and Arthur laughed, very, very softly. "That sounds wonderful."

Later that night, naked and pressed against the only person he'd ever truly loved, Alfred whispered, "You know, the first weeks here, I would dream about you."

Arthur, equally bare and relaxed on top of Alfred's chest, legs twining together, drawing aimless circles on his shoulder, murmured, "Really? About what?"

"When you helped me with the Airacobra."

Arthur smiled. "I can't believe you lost that stupid bugger. It took me hours to paint..."

"Iggs, please. It took you a total of 5 minutes."

"Details, details," Arthur retorted, grinning. As they grew quiet, Alfred rubbing Arthur's back, reveling in the fact that he was able to touch him, feel him so intimately, he realized he'd never been happier in his life.


	25. Epilogue

24 April, 2014

A silver convertible raced down Interstate 10, weaving in and out of traffic. Horns honked at the reckless driver, who looked a little too relaxed at the wheel. His two passengers gripped the edges of their seats, wind tossing their hair back and forth.

"For God's sake, Arthur! You'll kill us all!"

"Calm down. I'm a spectacular driver."

"If you were such a spectacular driv- SHIT! There's the exit!"

The tires screeched as Arthur jerked the convertible through two lanes, cutting people off and barely grazing the median as he swerved into the exit lane. Alfred wasn't sure if he wanted to open his eyes. Arthur laughed. "It's the first time you've let me drive your new car. Let me enjoy it."

"Never again, you sadist," Alfred grumbled. "I will never let you drive again."

"Was that an innuendo?" Alfred swatted him, and Arthur grinned, sparing a quick, affectionate glance at the American. "I'm in the mood for music."

"Fleetwood Mac?"

Alfred connected his phone to the stereo as Arthur commented, "You read my mind."

"So, you adjusting to the Los Angeles heat yet?"

"I'll never get used to American heat. Never."

Alfred laughed, trying to sooth back his hair as the wind destroyed it. "What about you-" Alfred turned, looking at the old man who looked flustered in the back seat. "-Gideon?"

He glanced at Alfred, wrinkled face belying his once handsome youth. "I live in Florida, bastard. I know what heat is."

Alfred grinned and turned back around in his seat. "Miami, right?"

"That's the one."

"Me and Iggs live in Florida during the winter. Then we go back to England in the summer."

Gideon mumbled, "I know, Alfred. You've told me that thousands of times. I'm 91, not deaf."

"I still find it uncanny," Arthur called back to Gideon over the wind, "That you live only an hour away from us."

"Where are you two young whippersnappers taking me, anyway? I'm too old for this."

Alfred and Arthur glanced at each other through their sunglasses. Arthur tried to suppress an excited grin.

"You'll see."

—

They arrived at the house on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Alfred practically jumped out of the car, helping Gideon out, which was quite a feat. "I can walk," he snapped. "I'm not an invalid."

"Just old," Arthur called back, walking up to the door. Gideon rolled his eyes as Alfred stuck close to him and helped him up the steps of the porch, and rang the doorbell. The door was already open, and the only thing that separated the three from inside was the flimsy screen door. Gideon curiously peered through the screen.

"Coming!" A loud, almost rusty voice called. Alfred felt chills crawl down his spine at the familiar voice, and glanced at Gideon, who looked antsy and unsure of what to think.

An old (and yet, somehow still sprightly) figure walked to the door, humming some familiar 80's song, and the screen opened.

Lou's gaze caught Gideon's, and they stared at each other, eyes wide.

"Happy Birthday, Lou," Arthur announced, grinning at the old man.

He laughed- that wonderful, stupid, loud laugh- and it brought tears to everyone's eyes, including his own. He grabbed Gideon's shoulders and jostled him, crying out, "Look at you! You still look wonderful!"

Gideon swatted at his hands, but was enveloped in a hug anyway. Even though he hated outward displays of affection, he had never been able to resist Lou, and embraced him back, sighing contentedly.

—

Alfred leaned forward on the couch, watching Lou as he told stories of what had happened to him after he was transferred, how he had gotten back into America, how he grew old, alone, wondering what had ever happened to his friends. Gideon and Arthur washed dishes in the kitchen- the two had become close after the war, anyway, because Alfred always planned trips to visit Gideon every month they lived in Florida.

"I never got to say goodbye," Lou was murmuring, watching the two in the kitchen. "What happened afterwards?"

"Modi and Stan were killed. Modi in a freak accident. Stan was shot down. Coleman left... and Maury did, too. Ezer became head of the IAF sometime after the war. Gideon and Arthur and I stayed around until it was over."

"Ah, Modi Alon. I thought I'd never hear that name again. How is Arthur?" He asked, hand on his chin.

Alfred glanced at the blonde, laughing about something in the kitchen with Gideon. "He has nightmares every now and then," Alfred murmured. "The night he finally remembered, he woke up screaming, and eventually passed out from over-exertion. It was..." he trailed off, searching for the right words. "It was frightening."

"That happens to me, every once in awhile. I wake up from a nightmare." Lou smiled. "But, he's blessed, Alfred. To have someone like you to come home to." There was a sense of longing in Lou's voice, his tone, and Alfred shook his head.

"I don't know about that," Alfred huffed, running a hand through his hair. "I think it's the other way around."

Lou leaned back in his seat, looking out the window. "It's funny. We were all just stupid, foolish men who found what we were looking for... by taking the risk of losing everything."

The truth in that statement was unequaled. Alfred looked out the window, too, as Lou continued, "What ever happened to Sefi?"

Alfred grinned. "I see him every now and then. He still looks the same as you remember him."

"I'm jealous. You get to look young 70- somthin' years later and I age horribly." Lou glanced into the kitchen, where Gideon's eyes caught his. Lou winked, and Gideon presented him with the finger, turning to continue putting dishes away.

"You know something? You two might say you changed, but you never really did," Alfred commented.

"Perhaps you're right," Lou chuckled. "Ah, I almost forgot! You're gonna love this. They wanna make a movie."

"Who? What movie?"

Lou relaxed, pulling a blanket off the couch and resting it over his legs, a grim reminder of how long he truly did have left on earth, flamboyant personality aside. "Some Spielberg person. Wants to make a documentary about the IAF pilots. She asked if she could interview me."

"What did you say?!"

"I said yes, of course," Lou affirmed, a pleased expression on his face. "And now that Gid the Yid's here, maybe he'll help-"

"Not on your life," Gideon called back from the kitchen.

Lou and Alfred laughed as Arthur shouted, "He's old, not deaf!"

Turning to Alfred, Lou murmured, "You and Arthur could be in it, too."

It was tempting. No one really knew about the sacrifice they had all made, because it had been illegal to help Israel anyway. No one talked about it. No one praised them for founding the Israeli Air Force. Now, maybe they would get the recognition they deserved.

"Nah," Alfred answered. "I'll leave you and Giddy to it."

"Are you sure?" Lou asked again, eyes pleading. "You deserve just as much as we do."

Alfred felt someone watching him, and turned, catching Arthur's eyes with his own. He looked content, hands pressed against his cheeks, and he nodded at Alfred, as if supporting his decision. Alfred replied without breaking their gaze, "We'll be fine. And we'll watch the documentary when it comes out. What's it called?"

Lou nodded, accepting the denied request, and looked up, humming, "Mm... Above and Beyond, I think?"

Arthur sat down beside Alfred on the couch, their thighs brushing as Arthur commented, "That's quite fitting."

Things hadn't ended the way Alfred had wanted them to end. People whom he had grown close to had died, had been torn apart from others, had suffered too much for one to suffer. He'd realized his own flaws too late, and had suffered the consequences of his actions.

His relationship with Arthur wasn't perfect by the world's standards. Arthur, behind closed doors, woke up screaming from nightmares, was as hormonal and emotional as a teenage girl, and snapped at Alfred when he was upset. But, when he wasn't haunted by his past, Arthur was thoughtful and kind, charming and good-hearted, able to read Alfred like a book and comfort him. He was still the same Arthur that Alfred had fallen in love with. If it wasn't perfect by the world's standards, Alfred would be damned if it wasn't perfect by his standards.

Chuckling, Alfred glanced down at the Brit by his side, who self-consciously looked away while still scooting closer to the American, searching for his hand and twining their fingers together. "It really is, isn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I can never stress my love for my reviewers. You all make me happy, especially those who have commented multiple times. (You know who you are!)


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